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BY EDMUND VANCE COOKE 

Rimes to be Read. Miscellaneous 
Verses. Cloth, $1.50; Leather, $2.00. 
Chronicles of the Little Tot. Poems 
of Childhood. Cloth, $1.50; Leather, 
$2.00. 

How Did You Die? One of Mr. 
Cooke's most popular "Impertinent 
Poems." Printed on a card in 
colors, 11x14, 2 5 cents. 

Impertinent Poems (Forbes & 
Co.), Cloth, 75 Cents. 

Dodge Publishing Company, 
23 East 20th Street, New York. 




JXL 



Rimes to Be 
Read 



By 

Edmund Vance Cooke 
Author of "Chronicles of the Little Tot.' 



New York 

Dodge Publishing Company 

40 East 19th Street 



=90= 



Copyright, 1897, by 
J. Edmund V. Cooke. 

Copyright, 1905, by 
Dodge Publishing Company. 

Tv» Oopias sieca^eQ 

SEP MI * 905 
Sopyrigra um 

COPY S. 



.<>V 






(Rimes to be Read) 

Revised and Enlarged Edition, September, 1905 



a 



- 



m 



NOTE. 

THE author takes pleasure in expressing his 
obligations to the "New York Sun," "Cleve- 
land Press," "Chicago Record-Herald," "St. 
Nicholas," "Youth's Companion," "Journal of Edu- 
cation," "Saturday Evening Post," "What-to-Eat," 
"New York Herald," "Truth," "Metropolitan Maga- 
zine," "Puck," "New York Clipper," "The Delinea- 
tor," "Lippincott's," "Smart Set," "Munsey's" and 
the papers of the Newspaper Enterprise Associa- 
tion, which various publications first presented most 
of these verses in print. 

In the present volume, an even half of the titles 
appeared in the former editions of the book, four 
of them are from "A Patch of Pansies," and twenty- 
six of them have never before been between covers. 

E. V. C. 



=DQ= 



THESE 

"RIMES TO BE READ," 

are inscribed to their readers, 
public or private. 




J 



=oa 




CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Tales, Grave and Gay 13 

Quaint Characters 65 

Home-Made Philosophy 113 

Various Verses 137 





D(X 




"I'M GLAD TO SEE YOU." 

"POLKS are often glad to meet other folks, you 

* know, 

But they sometimes falter when it comes to saying 
so; 

Or they say, "I'm glad t' see y'," O, so curt and low 

That you wonder just how far their gladsome feel- 
ings go. 

Say "I'm glad to see you," when you mean it. Speak 

it out; 
Don't bite off a piece of it and leave the rest in 

doubt. 
Let your lips know what your soul is thinking most 

about. 

It doesn't take an orator to say the sentence right; 
It doesn't need much rhetoric to make you feel its 

might; 
It has a hundred hundred tongues which tell its 

meaning quite. 

You feel it when you're going home and catch the 

window light, 
You see it in a sweetheart's smile, flashing warm 

and bright, 



<«> 




DO, 





"Tis in a mother's morning kiss and in the last at 

night, 
And baby's little reaching arms express the same 

delight. 

"Glad to see you!" O, you friends of dead yesterday, 
Could we only hear it from your dear lips far away; 
Could we tell it into ears which mingle now with 

clay, 
We might gain that fuller meaning which the simple 

words convey. 

Say, "I'm glad to see you," then, to those who still 

are here. 
Say it with that meaning which is music to the ear. 
More than simply say it; words are cheap, but deeds 

are dear; 
And men will say it back to you and make their 

meaning clear. 



(12) 



u 



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Tales, Grave and Gay. 



Cf 



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DO, 





THE STORY OF OLD GLORY. 

T TELL a tale which is not new, 

■^ But, O, as long as truth is true, 

As long as Freedom sets the pace 

Of progress for the human race, 

As long as it is our intent 

That All shall be the Government, 

As long as Rights of Man shall be 

The heritage of you and me 

As long as unslaved thought is dear, 

So long will all men pause to hear, 

The story of Old Glory. 

In seventeen seventy-six its red 

First from the rising sun is shed; 

In seventeen seventy-six its white 

First blends along the gladdened light; 

Its thirteen starry gems of heaven 

Flash forth in loyal seventy-seven. 

O, not of warp and woof and dye 

Is born that banner of the sky! 

It forms from out the heart and brain 

Of Patrick Henry, Franklin, Paine! 

It floats out proud and high and free 

In souls of Otis, Adams, Lee! 

Of Quincy, Sherman, Jefferson! 

Of Hancock, Warren, Washington! 

And so in valor is begun 

The story of Old Glory. 
(i5) 




DQ= 




Then Gage, Howe, Clinton and Burgoyne 

And Hessians hired by British coin; 

Cornwallis, with his lordly crest, 

Rhal, Tarleton, Parker and the rest, 

Strive hard to blot that flag from sight. 

But, armored in their sense of right, 

Come Putnam, Prescott, Allen, Stark, 

Men of a strong and sturdy mark; 

Come Ward, Montgomery, Schuyler, Greene, 

And all the list which lies between, 

From Marion to LaFayette. 

Right gallantly the foe is met! 

They make the flag acknowledged free, 

For kingcraft's rule is not to be 

The story of Old Glory. 



In times of war or times of peace, 
Its marches onward never cease. 
'Tis borne by Clark and Lewis on 
To far-off shores of Oregon. 
It floats on Fulton's boat, which steam 
First forces up against the stream 
And see! how on the air it rides 
In triumph o'er Old Ironsides. 
'Tis borne by Perry on the Lakes 
And proud defiance bravely shakes 
From Tripoli to Mexico! 
.Not always right, too well we know, 

(16) 




DO, 





But all the more, then, must we care 
That no oppression more shall share 

The story of Old Glory. 

Then comes the time its own stern sons 
Turn on it their revolted guns. 
But though Lee musters gallant horde, 
With Jackson's swift and sudden sword, 
With Johnston's cool and cunning skill, 
With Bragg and Longstreet's strenuous will; 
Though Morgan makes audacious dash, 
Though Stuart seems the lightning flash, 
Though Hood's impetuous men are hurled 
And Pickett's charge astounds the world, 
Yet — Grant and Appomattox come, 
And stifled is the warlike drum. 
Even in the hour when loyal Grief 
Moans by the body of The Chief, 
The monster, Civil Hate, is slain; 
State clasps the hand of State again, 
And, from the rock-bound coasts of Maine 
To every sunlit Texan plain, s 
There echoes back but one refrain; — 
The story of Old Glory. 

Still floats the flag! Its stars increase 
Through the triumphant times of peace. 
Still floats the flag — in 'seventy-six, 
When all the nations intermix 

(i7) 





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RIMES TO BE READ 





In honor of our liberty. 

Still floats the flag in 'ninety-three, 

When mankind comes from earth and sea 

To that Dream City of the West, 

Where Art and Marvel greet the guest. 

Still floats the flag in 'ninety-eight 

To free the serfs of Spanish hate, 

And, gladdened by the smiling May, 

From Cuba floats the flag away! 

More honored with its proud folds furled, 

And faith redeemed before the world, 

Than tho' it floated wide and far 

In hideous, tho' successful, war. 

And is our honor less of worth 

In other islands of the earth? 

Nay! this our motto! We are strong, 

And strength's best use is righting wrong. 

So be it told in speech and song! — 

The story of Old Glory. 

I Know that we are told its red 
Is of the blood its heroes shed, 
Its white the smoke of battle air, 
Its blue the garb its soldiers wear; 
But O, believe not that its stars 
Are only bursting shells of wars! 
Believe not that its red and white 
But symbolize the stripes which smite! 
Nay, rather think those stars are eyes, 
Eternal, godlike, of the skies; 
(18) 




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RIMES TO BE READ 




Its red the flame of loyalty, 
Its white the badge of purity, 
Its blue the blue of Freedom's sky — 
And then we know shall never die 

The story of Old Glory. 



(19) 





oa 




THE ANARCHIST. 

T7"ES, Wallace Wright was an anarchist. Nay, 
* sir, hold back your blame; 
And pause, O woman of high degree, before you cry 

his shame; 
And you, fair maid with the spotless soul, shrink not 

before his name. 

But why for Anarchy? Would he turn the world 
from its ways of work? 

Would he make the scholar a millman, or the un- 
taught ditcher clerk? 

Did he covet the honest spoil of toil, himself con- 
tent to shirk? 

Listen and know. I think not so, and yet it well 

might be, 
With a boyhood spent at a working bench instead 

of a mother's knee; 
With ten hours toiling daily, for a pittance, year by 

year, 
For children are many and cheap, my friends, and 

dollars scarce and dear. 

Yet he did not coarsen in mind or heart, that kin or 

comrades saw, 
But he worked, he thrived, matured and wived, and 

still he believed in law. 



(20) 




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Her softest wish was a law to him, and sweet was 

the hard-won bread, 
And the steadiest man in all the shops was Wallace 

Wright, they said. 

But the times grew hard and the wage was cut, and 

amid the ensuing strife 
The first black shadow of Anarchy came into our 

workman's life, 
For his bench-mate there, in the shop, was one from 

the far-off Volga's side, 
Who had seen his sister dragged to shame and his 

father scourged till he died, 
Who had seen his mother go raving mad, had seen 

it all dry-eyed, 
And then he had sworn such an oath of oaths that 

the depths of hell replied. 

And Wallace was stirred by the Russian and hon- 
estly shared his grief, 

But would not hear of the Red Reform, with its 
promise of swift relief — 

Relief from the grinding greed of man, from the 
wrongs of class and state, 

Relief from a hundred things he saw, with the fer- 
vor of honest hate. 

Yes, he knew his own and his fellows' wrongs, and 
his very soul grew sore, 

But what of that? It was all forgot when he entered 
his cottage door. 

(21) 




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Then the times waxed worse and they let men go, 

and Wallace among the rest. 
Discharged for his long, hard service! for it made 

his wage the best, 
And the high must go to retain the low, when price 

is the crucial test. 
No work! 'tis a thought to rebuke the heart for its 

dance within the breast. 
No, not for you who read this word and think of a 

thousand friends, 
Nor you with a dozen talents, all pat on your 

fingers' ends, 
But for him who knows but to do one thing, and 

who earns no more than he spends, 
Work, constant work, is the needful thing on which 

his life depends. 



Then the Russian came. 



"Are you ready now to mingle with Free- 
dom's set?" 
But Wallace had only gravely smiled and had shaken 

his head: "Not yet." 
Then day by day he sought for work. Do you un- 
derstand? He sought, 
As no man ever sought gold or fame, for toil— and 
he found it not. 



(22) 




=DCL 







The quick, curt word, the rough rebuff, the careless 

sign of the head, 
Were his till his face was sharp with care and his 

heavy heart like lead. 

And every night when he sought his home, with an 
aching, haunting dread, 

His wife looked up. She spoke no word, but mourn- 
fully drooped her head 

To hide the fear of her mother-heart, the fear that 
would not be gone; 

The fear for the babe unborn, whom want already 
laid clutches on. 

Then there came a day when they had to face the 

terrible word, "Vacate!" 
The owner was "Sorry of course, but then, that 

didn't keep the estate." 

And the Russian came. 

"Are you ready, Wright?" "Not yet!" he 
gasped, "not yet! 
I have still my wife and hope and life! and there 
must be work to get." 

A wretched hovel received them. They struggled 

from bad to worse, 
Till death seemed only happiness and life was the 

greater curse. 

(23) 



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RIMES TO BE READ 




And then she sickened; her life ebbed, ebbed, and 

nevermore turned its tide, 
And Wallace had only wildly prayed that he might 

be laid at her side, 
For he knew she had died from cruel want, in a 

fruitful, generous earth; 
And the quiet babe at her side, he knew, was 

starved before its birth. 

And the Russian came. 

"Well, Wallace Wright, are you still content 
with life? 

You talked to me of Society's claim, and Society 
killed your wife. 

Society grinds and kills us all, and you will not 
make it rue it. 

You talked to me of your God, and He — He let So- 
ciety do it." 

Can you blame the man, who, in wild despair, 
pressed lips to the lips of his dead 

And arose and looked at the Russian? "Lead on! 
I will go," he said. 



A month had passed and the Red Reform to which 

he had joined his fate 
Had issued its edict against a man who had earned 

its cruel hate — 



(24) 



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RIMES TO BE READ 





Who had earned its hate, for his wealth was used to 

oppress and not to raise; 
And the sterner the bargain in flesh and blood, the 

more was his own self-praise. 

And hence the decree of the Red Reform, with fifty 

men in the plot, 
Where forty and nine had voted "Kill!" and one 

had voted not. 
That one you know, yet his name was first to be 

drawn in the fateful lot, 
And his Russian friend was the second, so the Red 

Reform decreed 
"That the monster yield his life to man, and that 

these two do the deed." 

'Twas the fated day — a holiday — and the noisy 

throng poured out, 
Full-fed with the chaff of cheers and jeers, of the 

sounding laugh and shout, 
In that strange way that a world is gay, all heedless 

of what about. 

Then down the street came the day's event, the glit- 
tering grand parade, 

And Wallace knew that the man they sought was 
one of the cavalcade. 

That man was the man for whom his brow had 
sweat with the wet of years, 

Who had drained his life of hope and joy and left 
there want and tears, 
(25) 



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Who had taken work from his hand when work was 

another name for life, 
Who had taken his home from his head — from hers 

— who had killed, yes, kitted his wife. 
Half dazed, half crazed, stood Wallace Wright, with 

the single thought in his head 
That the life of this man of plenty would pay for 

his stricken dead. 

Then the Russian said: "When the carriage comes 

to the crossing just below, 
You spring and seize the horses' heads and I will 

deal the blow; 
Then shout: 'This much for the Red Reform!' but 

if I should chance to miss, 
As soon as I'm clear of the carriage you finish the 

work with this." 

And The Deed came near and nearer, when, close 

at his side, a child 
Cried out her baby greeting, and the doomed man 

looked and smiled 
And flung from his glove a kiss, as of love unselfish 

and undefiled. 

Lo! the purpose of Wallace vanished, like the dark 

before the sun, 
At the love in the wee child's laughter and the 

thought if The Deed were done 



(26) 



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f 



IXL 




How she would be robbed as he had been and the 

sweet face marred with grief, 
How a hate would fill the little soul for him, who 

had been the thief. 



Yet there was his friend, the Russian, no cause 

should make betray; 
And there was the man who had wronged him, who 

blighted the summer day. 
A moment of wavering anguish, a moment of doubt 

and dread, 
Then, disregarding the passing steeds, he sprang for 

his friend instead. 
But the terrible knife was naked; it glittered, it 

rose, it sank, 
But it did not find its target; 'twas Wallace's blood 

it drank, 
While the crowd closed in on the Russian, who 

fought them front and flank. 
With curses and cries and blows ^hey closed; 

Wright madly strove to save him; 
Was seized, was bound, and on him they found the 

bomb that the Russian gave him. 



The rest is simply, quickly told. They scented the 
deeper plot 

And offered Wallace a pardon's bribe, but he an- 
swered them, "For what? 
(27) 




=00= 




Do you think I would bring another here to ease or 

share my lot? 
Betray a friend for a pardon? For a thousand I 

would not, 
Though you keep me here in prison walls till they 

or I shall rot!" 
So they juried and judged him guilty and gave him 

the law's extent, 
And all of his wrongs re-woke in him and his inmost 

soul was rent, 
Yet he smiled to the Russian a sad "Good-by," as 

into his cell he went. 



He did not hear the confession that the other's 

tongue poured out, 
As, with calm and clear conciseness which the list- 
eners could not doubt, 
He told the story of Wallace: how the workshop 

thrust him out; 
Of all the bitter battle; of how it had come about 
He had cast his lot with the Red Reform; how, 

alone, he plead for life 
For the man the clan had sworn should die; and at 

last he had stopped the knife 
With his own rag-covered bosom; how he even 

then proved true 
To him who had pierced his body, though with un- 

intent, God knew! 



(28) 




€0, 




"And this is the man," said the Russian, "you have 
dared to condemn — you, you — 

By the Lord! no soul in all the whole of your Mam- 
mon-serving crew 

Should think it other than honor to latch that hero's 
shoe!" 

And then they remembered his boyhood days, re- 
membered his manhood shown 

In a hundred kindly, simple acts amongst people he 
had known, 

Remembered the Russian's story, yes, even a trifle 
more; 

Why, even the man whose life he saved, said, "He 
wasn't bad, at the core!" 

So the Governor sent a pardon and they opened his 
grated door 

And found him as dead as the pitiless stone which 
formed his prison floor. 

They said that his wound had bled within. I doubt 

it not. Ah me! 
There's many a wound which bleeds within we 

haven't the trick to see. 
But they said that his face wore a smile of grace. 

Was it joy to escape from earth? 
Or was it for wife — and that little one, which had 

starved before its birth? 



(29) 





DO, 





connor McCarthy. 

A H, gud marnin', sir, 'dade and I'm hearty 

** and glad that the weather is fine. 

Sure it isn't ould Connor McCarthy that's goin' to 

mope and to whine 
Because he can't make the world over. Yes, sir, 

that's me bit of a place. 
Sure I love every leaf on the clover and know 

every buttercup's face. 



"Dan says its a toomble-down shanty, and not fit to 
live in, says Lou; 

So they're payin' me board. They have planty and 
both of 'em free wid it, too. 

And I'm takin' me sup where they bid me, but most 
of the time I'll be found 

Right here, where there's nobody wid me— or no- 
body still on the ground. 



"Of course it's an ould fellow's notion, and yet I'm 

half thinkin' it's true 
That the girl I brought over the ocean is a-doin' her 

waitin' here, too. 
The childer see no cause fer sorrow and say I'm 

' a-weakenin' fast, 
But young people live fer to-morrow, while ould 
people live fer the past. 
(30) 



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RIMES TO BE READ 





"The girl I brought over was Mary — my Mary, 
God's peace to her soul! 

And never a word went contrary and never a heart- 
ache but stole 

Straight back to the land it was born in, afraid of 
the peace in her eyes, 

Eyes soft as the stars of the mornin' and blue wid 
the blue of the skies. 

"And never a worriment found me, but Mary's kiss 

laid it to rest. 
And whin her two arms went around me, I held all 

the world to me breast! 
You smile, sir, because I'm revealin' what most of 

us hide. But it's true, 
And surely you know that same feelin', or else — 

well, God's mercy on you! 

"I loved her. I envied her shadow because it could 

lay at her feet, 
While I, wid the stock in the m'adow or down in 

the corn and the wheat, 
Was workin' fer bread fer the darlin'. And she was 

as jealously warm 
And vowed she was often fer quarrelin' wid the coat 

that was touchin' me arm. 

"And so we lived on here together, as happy as 

childer at play, 
Till Danny was born, sir, and whether I blessed or 

regretted the day 

(31) 




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I couldn't have told at your biddin'. I loved the wee 

broth of a boy 
As he lay there, all swaddled and hidden — ten 

pounds, sir, of genuine joy! 

"And yet even joy goes contrary and has a best side 

and a worst, 
Fer soon I was second to Mary and Danny the baby 

was first. 
What! jealous, you say, of a baby? That baby me 

own blood and bone? 
You call me a fool, sir, but maybe your love never 

burned like me own. 

"I was jealous; I know it; I knew it. But never a 

word did I say, 
But loved wife and baby all through it, and worked 

fer them day after day. 
But O, things had changed. Why, the garden had 

lost half its green to me sight. 
I felt 'most like askin' God's pardon fer bringin' 

such stuff to the light. 

"The long-legged calf and the cow there; the new, 

nakid lamb in the field, 
The shaggy, ould horse in the plow there; the corn 

wid its promisin' yield 
Were yesterday pictures of beauty. The commonest 

rail in the fence 
Seemed proud to be doin* its duty, but now 'twas 

all dollars and cents. 
(32) 




=9a 



i 




Ah, sad is the day that must borrow its light from a 
day of the past, 

And sad when you turn from to-morrow to a yester- 
day never to last. 

"Then came baby Lucy, a-makin' a change I don't 

yet understand, 
But all the delight Dan had taken came back in her 

wee, baby hand. 
Ah, she was my bit of a fairy! Me soul warmed 

again in me breast. 
I was fonder of her than of Mary, and she learned 

to love me the best, 
And would turn from her mother's own shoulder 

and cry to be taken by me, 
And somehow that made Mary colder, but I never 

noticed, you see, 

"For I was that taken wid Lucy. The color came 

back to the sky; 
The sun seemed to shine wid a use he had almost 

forgotten to try, 
The use, sir, of warmin' a fellow, the inside as well 

as the out, 
Of spendin' his glorious yellow to buy us from 

worry and doubt 
And all of that foolish complainin' the happiest folks 

seem possessed 
Forever to be entertainin', like Mary and me, wid 

the rest. 

(33) 



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l\ 




"You might not have thought, had you seen us, each 

one wid a child to the heart, 
Those babies had come in between us and were 

pushing us farther apart. 
Though both of us keenly could feel it, we let it run 

on to the worst; 
The years failed to stop it or heal it, and one day 

the awful storm burst. 

"When married folks keep on a-livin', each holdin' 

some things from the light, 
They both must do lots of forgivin' before matters 

settle down right. 
And Mary was little on meekness and I — I could 

hardly be bent, 
And both counted kindness a weakness; and so she 

took Danny — and went. 
You've heard that she went wid another. A lie! on 

me soul, 'tis a lie! 
And yet, sir, in some way or other, you've heard — 

but of that by and by. 

"Bit by bit, sir, I sold every acre, exceptin' this lot 

that you see, 
A-tryin' to find her and make her take money 

enough to be free 
From poverty's pinch, till one marnin' (it still sets 

me heart beatin' hard) 
Widout the least bit of a warnin' I saw a lad run up 

me yard. 

(34) 




JXL 




RIMES TO BE READ 




And open the door. It was Danny! The rascal had 

grown full a head! 
Ah, but I was as soft as a granny and hugged him 

and kissed him and said, 
'Your mother, Dan? Quick, don't torment me wid 

waitinV and then 
He gave me the letter she sent me. I mind every 

scratch of the pen. 

*' 'Dear Connor: I send you me jewel. I've kept him 

as long as I could, 
But now, though it's horribly cruel and hurts me, 

it's all for his good. 
I'm not fit to raise him, so, Connor, you make him 

the man he should be. 
Forgive his poor mother's dishonor and kiss little 

Lucy for me.' 

"That was all. But O, Father in Heaven! the words 

seemed to burn in me brain 
And everything else there was driven away by their 

terrible pain. 
'Dishonor!' No more a pure woman, nevermore wid 

a right to the name, 
The highest of everything human? I cried like a 

child wid the shame. 
And then I determined to reach her, to find her and 

help her to live, 
To give her a chance and to teach her that God, yes, 

and I — could forgive. 
(35) 




=90: 




"Then came every friend and relation, wid, 'Connor, 

it never will do.' 
'The childer,' they said, 'Reputation/ and 'Just at 

their time of life, too.' 
And so, for the son and the daughter, I gave up the 

mother and wife, 
But O, it was hard, hard to blot her quite out of me 

heart and me life. 

"The childer grew up. Lucy married, position and 

money and all. 
Dan made his way easy and carried the town for 

recorder last fall. 
'Last fall.' Yes, last fall in September, I heard 

from me Mary. She sent 
And begged me to come, to remember the dear, 

early days we had spent 
As husband and wife and to hasten, to come widout 

losin' a day. 
My! my! how me ould legs went racin' to Danny 

and Lucy, but they, 
They said, 'Send her money, but, father, you can't 

carry out all yer plan. 
Don't let her come back, for we'd rather let bygones 

be dead, when we can.' 

'"Send money.' God's mercy! what's money when 

souls are a-starvin' to death? 
Dan said if the campaign were done he wouldn't 

have hindered a breath, 
(36) 




-OQ 




But now — . Ah, 'but now;' the same reason that al- 
ways was ready to tell — 

'But now!' Was there never a season when mercy 
was free from its spell? 

"I went to me Mary. I found her that sick that me 
heart nearly broke. 

She died, but my arms were around her. My name 
was the last word she spoke. 

She always had loved me, and better than that, she 
had always been pure. 

The terrible words of her letter were not what we 
fancied, for sure, 

Her heart was that true to her Connor, her con- 
science so tender, you see, 

Her leavin' her home seemed dishonor and so she 
had called it to me. 

"I hope you don't mind my relatin' me story. It's 

nothin', but I, 
I lived it, you see. Now I'm waiiin', yes, waitin', 

contented, to die. 
I've got no reproach for the livin'. I've nothin' but 

love for the dead, 
I hope me own past is forgiven, and as for what's 

comin' ahead, 
Who can tell? Maybe joy, maybe sorrow, but surely 

there's some place, at last, 
Where old people live for to-morrow, as well as 

look into the past." 
(37) 



b 




£X1 







THE YOUNG MAN WAITED. 

TN the room below the young man sat, 
* With an anxious face and a white cravat, 
A throbbing heart and a silken hat, 
And various other things like that, 

Which he had accumulated. 
And the maid of his heart was up above, 
Surrounded by hat and gown and glove, 
And a thousand things which women love, 
But no man knoweth the names thereof — 
And the young man sat and — waited. 

You will scarce believe the things I tell, 
But the truth thereof I know full well, 

Though how may not be stated; 
But I swear to you that the maiden took 
A sort of a half-breed, thin stove-hook 
And heated it well in the gaslight there 
And thrust it into her head, or hair! 
Then she took a something off the bed, 
And hooked it onto her hair, or head, 
And piled it high, and piled it higher, 
And drove it home with staples of wire! 

And the young man anxiously — waited. 

Then she took a thing she called "a puff," 
And some very peculiar, whitish stuff, 
And using about a half a peck, 
She spread it over her face and neck, 
(38) 




£XL 




(Deceit was a thing she hated!) 
And she looked as fair as a lilied bower, 
(Or a pound of lard, or a sack of flour) 

And the young man wearily — waited. 

Then she took a garment of awful shape, 
And it wasn't a waist, nor yet a cape; 
But it looked like a piece of ancient mail, 
Or an instrument from a Russian jail, 
And then with a fearful groan and gasp, 
She squeezed herself in its deathly clasp — 

So fair and yet so fated! 
And then with a move like I don't know what, 
She tied it on with a double knot; 

And the young man woefully — waited. 

Then she put on a dozen different things, 
A mixture of buttons and hooks and strings, 
Till she strongly resembled a notion store; 
Then taking some seventeen pins, or more, 
She thrust them between her ruby lips, 
Then stuck them around from waist to hips, 
And never once hesitated. 
And the maiden didn't know perhaps, 
That the man below had had seven naps, 
And that now he sleepily — waited. 

And then she tried to put on her hat. 
Ah me, a trying ordeal was that! 
She tipped it high and she tried it low, 
But every way that the thing would go 
(39) 




£KL 




Only made her more agitated. 
It wouldn't go straight and it caught her hair, 
And she wished she could hire a man to swear, 

But alas! the only man lingering there 

Was the man who wildly — waited. 

Then a little dab here and a wee pat there, 
And a touch or two to her hindmost hair, 
Then around the room with the utmost care 

She thoughtfully circulated. 
Then she seized her gloves and a chamois skin, 
Some breath perfume and a long stick pin, 

A bon-bon box and a cloak and some 

Eau de cologne and chewing gum, 
Her opera glass and a sealskin muff, 
A fan and a heap of other stuff; 
Then she hurried down, but ere she spoke, 
Something about the maiden broke, 
So she scurried back to the winding stair, 
And the young man looked in wild despair, 

And then he — evaporated! 



(40) 



£Q= 




RIMES TO BE READ 




THE LABORS OF HERCULES. 

(Worked Over in Easy-Going Verse.) 

T N Ancient Greece, long time ago, a man was born 

*■• — or, maybe, 

I ought to say a god was born — or, better yet, a 

baby. 
His father's name was Jupiter; Alcmena was his 

mother, 
Who vowed he was "the sweetest pet," and "never 

such another!" 
But Juno, wife of Jupiter, pretended not to know it; 
She didn't like young Hercules, and straightway 

sought to show it. 
She sent two horrid, monstrous snakes, to eat him 

in his cradle, 
Which reptiles found him sitting eating sugar with a 

ladle. 
They smiled to see how sweet he'd be, but lo! the 

boy gave battle: 
He killed them both and used their tails to make a 

baby-rattle. 
Then Juno let him thrive in peace; but, after he was 

grown, 
He found that she had kept him from a kingdom and 

a throne. 
Eurystheus obtained these plums, but night and day 

was haunted 
By tales of mighty Hercules — the hero and un- 
daunted! 

(41) 



DQ= 





So, after some deep thinking, Eurystheus planned to 

send him 
To do a dozen labors, any one of which might end 

him. 

LABOR I. 

The Nemean lion, accustomed to ravage 
The country around, being voted too savage, 
Our hero was sent to remove him from earth, 
With no arms, save the two that he had at his birth. 
Brave Hercules blocks up one hole of the den 
And enters the other. A silence, and then 
Comes a growl, and a roar and a rush, and a shock — 
Like waves in the tempest they struggle and rock, 
Till Hercules wins the renowned "strangle lock," 
And the lion goes down like a log or a post, 
Repents of his sins, and is only a ghost. 

LABOR II. 

There lived at that epoch, according to story, 
A terrible monster, whose principal glory 
Consisted of heads, which a strict inventory 
Declared to be nine; and one of the same 
Was as deathless as Jove, so authorities claim. 
Nothing daunted, our Hercules went forth to fight 

it; 
He cut off one head and two others were sighted. 
And thus the solution appeared to his view: 
"When you take one from one, the result will be 

two." 

(42) 




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Rather taken aback, but still thoroughly game, 

He called his hired help, Iolaus by name. 

Then he shaved off the heads as a man would a 

beard, 
And the necks (by his servant) were carefully seared, 
Till the deathless head soon was left grinning alone, 
And that one he buried beneath a big stone. 

LABOR III. 

The Arcadian stag was a curious kind, 
Golden-horned, orazen-hoofed, and could outrun the 

wind; 
Whoever pursued him was soon left behind. 
The mandate was given to capture him living, 
So our hero set out without any misgiving. 
All over the kingdom he followed the brute, 
Till a year was consumed in the useless pursuit. 
"Confound you!" said Hercules, seizing his bow, 
"I've got something here which I'll , wager can go 
As fast as two stags." And it proved to be so. 
The arrow succeeded in laying him low. 
The wound wasn't fatal, so Hercules caught him, 
And into the king's haughty presence he brought 

him. 

LABOR IV. 



The boar of Erymanthus was de trop 
Which is French for saying how 
Bores are looked on, even now. 
(43) 



£a 







Our hero ran the rascal through the snow, 

Snared him neatly in a net, 

Picked him up, like any pet, 
And took him to the capital to add him to the show. 

LABOR V. 

Augeas, King of Elis, it appears, 

Had several thousand oxen in his stable, 

But hadn't cleaned the place for thirty years. 

The hard taskmaster heard, pricked up his ears 

And cried, "Ho! ho! my Hercules, you're able 

To do great things. I give you just one day 

For this spring cleaning." Stranger to dismay, 

Our hero sought the stables of Augeas, 

Turned into them the river named Alpheus, 

And re-enforced it with the swift Peneus; 

These brooms soon swept the dirt away, you have 

my word. 
Perhaps they swept the stables with it. That I 

haven't heard. 

LABOR VI. 

The Stymphalian birds were a horrible lot, 

And everyone thought 

That they ought 

To be shot; 
Yet no one had done it, till Hercules brought 
His little snake-rattle to set them to flying 
And then popped them over, as easy as lying. 

(44) 




^a 




LABOR VII. 

A bull, sent by Neptune to die in his honor (?) 
Not having been killed was made mad by the donor. 
Eurystheus must have been running a "Zoo," 
And having the stag and the boar, wanted, too, 
The mad bull of Crete; so he ordered "Go get him!" 
Though Hercules never so much as had met him. 

But our hero set sail, 

Grabbed the bull by the tail, 
And took him to Hellas; but not for the Garden, 
For, having arrived, he then (begging his pardon 
Because he had given his tail such a pull) 
Set him free — and all Greece was as mad as the bull. 

LABOR VIII. 

Diomedes 
Used to feed his 

Mares on human flesh. 
Hercules just cut him up, 
Found the mares inclined to stlp, 

And fed him to them, fresh. 
'Twas a most successful plan; 
Though before they liked a man 

More than oats or anything, 
Strange to say, this master-diet 
Made them docile, kind and quiet, 

To be taken to the king. 



(45) 




SO: 





LABOR IX. 



The Amazon queen had a beautiful belt. 
'Twas given by Mars, and the queen justly felt 
Quite proud of the trifle, but Kercules started 
To see if the belt and queen couldn't be parted. 
At first it appeared he had only to ask 
To receive it, but this was too easy a task 
To please Mrs. Juno, who stirred up a bolt 
In the ranks of the Amazons. When the revolt 
Was reported to Hercules, he rather thought 
The queen was a traitress and covertly wrought 
To undo him; so seizing the girdle he sought, 
He slew her, and thus was it bloodily bought. 
Which shows that a man may be brave as the best, 
And yet ungallant, when it comes to a test. 



LABOR X. 



Geryones had a fine herd of red cattle, 
With a two-headed dog and a giant to battle 
With any who trespassed upon his domain. 
Dog, owner and keeper were met and were slain, 
Yet Hercules still had to fight heavy odds, 
(A number of men and a parcel of gods) 
But in spite of them all, he conducted the string 
Of handsome, red beasts to his brute of a king. 

(46) 



=£0= 




LABOR XL 



When Juno was married, the goddess of Earth 
Presented some apples of excellent worth, 

Made all of fine gold 
From the smooth, shiny skin to the pips in the core, 

(Alas! I am told 
Such beautiful apples don't grow any more.) 
But wealth is a worry; nobody need doubt it, 
Unless, like myself, he is always without it. 
And Juno was worried until she grew pale; 
Her nectar was flat, her ambrosia was stale. 
The fear of a burglar had entered her head, 
And so every night she looked under the bed. 
No matter what Jupiter argued or said, 
She'd wake him at midnight to vow and declare 
There must be an apple-thief round about there. 
At last, growing tired of the worry and wear, 
She placed them in care 
Of the sisters Hesperides, living just where 

The sun sets at night. 

Our hero met Atlas, who held up the height 
Of the heavens in air, 

And a bargain was struck that the hero should bear 
The dome for a while, and the action should earn 
The apples, which Atlas brought back in return. 
Though I can't understand 
Why a chap with a chance to steal apples at hand, 



(47) 



o 



DO, 





Scot-free of all blame, 

Should so lose his head 

As to give up his claim 

And let somebody else do it for him instead. 

LABOR XII. 

Pluto, in his world below, 

Had a great three-headed beast 
Called a dog. Perhaps 'twas so, 
But I doubt his breed, at least. 
House-dog? Hardly. Poison-drops 
Fell from out his gaping chops, 
And his fangs were sharp as hate, 
And he guarded Pluto's gate. 

Hercules was told to fetch 
This repulsive, savage wretch. 
Hercules with little fuss 
Seized the snarling Cerberus, 

Took him to the Earth from Hades, 
Scared the king in playful sport, 
Showed him round to all the court, 

Made him bark for all the ladies. 
Then the hero let him go, 

And he sank to realms below, 

One head growling, 

One head yowling, 

One head howling, 
Out dog-curses, 

(48) 




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RIMES TO BE READ 




As mythology rehearses. 

And the fun 

Of the Labors — all was done. 
So are these doggerel verses. 



(49) 





DQ 




RIMES TO BE READ. 




THE HERO OF THE HILL. 

"P|0 you ever stop to watch a horse pull a big 

*-* load up a hill? 

There's something fine about the way he sends his 

rugged will 
Down through those quivering shoulders, till it 

seems as if he clutched 
And hurled the hill behind his heels until the top is 

touched. 
It gives a man new courage when he comes to his 

steep grade, 
To think of that example which the plucky beast has 

made. 



But if the load prove stronger; if the horse, with 
hoofs outspread, 

With reddened nostrils, foaming flanks, and bowing, 
straining head, 

Surrenders to the inert mass, while the driver's only 
helps 

Are strident oaths and the savage sound of the hot, 
whip's snaps and yelps, 

Why then the chief result is, that it makes a fellow 
feel 

He'd like to take that driver's head to block the slip- 
ping wheel! 



(50) 



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But I remember one time when the driver had a 

heart, 
And worked with mind and muscle to release the 

stubborn cart 
From the clay-rut, when some soldiers who were 

loafing in the sun 
Let fall their lazy jaws to laugh and let their cheap 

wit run. 
One cried, "Say, take that bag of bones and feed him 

to the crows!" 
And "Oh, he'd scare the crows away," the mocking 

answer rose. 
"It'll take a small torpedo, if you ever move that 

beast." 
"Better get one of the size of that which wrecked 

the 'Maine/ at least." 



So ran the jeering comments, till at last a bugler 

said, 
"Say, driver, if I blow the charge, d'ye think he'd 

drop down dead?" 
It was then the driver answered, "Well, he might; 

but let me say 
That this old horse has heard the charge when it 

meant 'Charge!' to obey. 
Not on the dress-parade grounds along with chaps 

like you. 
But on the fields of Cuba where the Spanish bullets 

flew; 

(5i). 



P 



£X3= 




And though he's drifted back to me and don't look 
very trim, 

I tell you he's a vet, who has the right stuff yet in 
him." 

"Oh, nonsense !" laughed a sergeant , and "Non- 
sense!" sneered the rest, 

And the bugler raised his bugle, crying, "This'll be 
the test" 

Then out upon the air there fell a dozen liquid 

tones, 
Like prophecies of glory mingling with the ghosts 

of groans, 
The sound the soldier hears — and cheers — although 

its mellow breath 
May send him where the cannon belch their black 

and bitter death, 
The sound which cries, "Destroy, destroy! and let 

the list be large!" 
The ringing of the bugle when it blows the battle 

charge. 



And how the old horse heard it! Up flung his heavy 

head, 
Wide grew his nostrils, straight his ears, and quick 

the fever spread 
Through every nerve and muscle, as he forward 

plunged and pressed 
Straight up the steep, despite his load, and stood 

upon the crest! 

(52) 



=oa 




RIMES TO BE READ 




And were the soldiers laughing now? Not so. The 
scoffing jeers 

Gave way to shame a moment, and then burst forth 
in cheers. 

And the sergeant cried, "Attention, boys! fall in! 
dress ranks! salute! 

Salute the gallant veteran — our comrade, though a 
brute. 

God send him oats and apples and the shelter of a 
stall, 

And grant we be as sturdy when we hear the battle- 
call!" 



(53) 







DQL 




IN THE OLD SCHOOLHOUSE. 

TXTELL, well! and can it be? 
** Is this the same old schoolhouse? Is this 
the same old me? 
Why, here's the very place 
Where Teacher stood the dunce-stool, with me on it, 

in disgrace. 
And here's the old blackboard 
Where I ciphered, ciphered, ciphered, till I stopped, 

completely floored, 
While Teacher looked severe, 
And forty thumbs and fingers taunted "We know!" 

in my ear. 
And here's the hollow chair 
Which I levelled up with water, and when Teacher 

sat down there 
His gasp of wet surprise 
Touched giggling springs within, which bubbled out 

of lips and eyes. 
And O, those awful tones 
Which meted out my punishment, "You sit with 

Julia Jones!" 

The mirth forsook my face, 

And every blood-corpuscle blushed to witness my 

disgrace. 
"O, tyrant, take thy rule 
And rap these knuckles loudly, till I howl before the 

school! 

(54) 




£XX 




O, set thy biting birch 

Against these legs till not an inch of skin escapes its 

search ! 
O, tread me in the dust. 

And keep me in at recess till vacation, if thou must! 
Make sore my very bones, 
But cry thee mercy, Teacher, sit me not with Julia 

Jones!" 

Why, here's the very seat 

Where I sat next to Julia, sweating blood from head 

to feet, 
While Julia broke a rule 
And whispered, "Feel mean if you want to, Phil, but 

don't look like a fool!" 
And then, to show her grit, 
She slipped her arm behind me, saying, "I don't 

mind a bit." ^* 
I sat, with lips a-curl, 
And marveled why a righteous God should ever 

make a girl. 
But — well, it's very strange, 
For in a year or two my views had undergone a 

change, 
And I'd have swapped my bones 
For the punishment of sitting all my life with Julia 

Jones. 

And now! well, can it be 

I'm in the same old schoolhouse with the same old 
dreams in me? 

(55) 




=DG 





The place is mean and low, 

But Athens' classic Parthenon could hardly stir me 
so. 

The Teacher, where is he? 

A blessing on his stern old face, wherever it may be. 

And Julia, is she there 

Still under the dominion of his tutelary care, 

A means of righteous wrath 

To punish young male cherubim who tread the way- 
ward path? 

I can't believe it. No, 

For I left her with the babies hardly half an hour 
ago, 

And my reason quite disowns 

A theory which gives her back her maiden name of 
Jones. 



(56) 




^a 





FAME AND FATE 

TTTORK for the world, but art for me! 
* * I shall win my way with the brush," said 
she. 
She studied art; she studied it hard; 
She painted canvases, yard on yard 
(For "Art is long," as I'm sure you've heard), 
Two strokes, or three 
For a blasted tree 

And a wiggle or two for a flying bird. 
But "art" is sometimes purest gold, 
And sometimes merest gilding — 
So she "wins her way with the brush," I'm told, 
By scrubbing a New York building. 

"The world may dig in the dark," said he, 
"But the beam of the footlights beckons me." 
So he cried in grief and he cried in joy, 
He screamed the scream 
Of Aram's Dream, 

And he groaned the groan of The Polish Boy. 
He likewise remarked, "On the murderer's hands 
Is the blood of his victim! there he stands!" 
And, "Listen, proud maid! You shall be my wife 
Even though it shall cost your husband's life." 
But "Art is long" — very long — so, too, 
Are the miles of ties on the C. B. Q., 
So he's "on the stage" — in Idaho 
From Seven Devils to Silver Bow. 
(57) 




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"Love for the common, but mine is fame!" 

She cried, "and the world shall know my name." 

Corrupting English, she called it "verse," 

While "poetry" graded somewhat worse. 

"Now flees my love 

As doth the dove 

Which moults to feathery clouds above. 

Its cryptic cry apace doth haste 

And wounds the wind which sweeps the waste." 

Ah, "Art is long" (in sad endurance) 

And Fame coquettes with bald Assurance. 

And now, wherever the English tongue 

Is put into print her praise is sung, 

For she was cured of manifold ills 

By Buncombe Bitters and Pigweed Pills. 

"Gold cozens the soul of men, but mine," 
He said, "is filled with the art divine. 
Music may lead me whither she may; 
I toil at the ivories day by day 
Till the world shall gather when I shall play." 
He practiced in every conceivable key — 
Rumplety, tumplety, tunk tank, tee; 
Ripplety, skipplety, lol-la-lee! 
Till his brow with an honest dew was wet 
And neighboring flats were marked "To Let." 
Yes, "Art is long," but the wise retort 
That the artist himself is sometimes short, 
So the world does gather to watch him play 
As he fingers the ivories day by day 
In a billiard hall in Santa Fe. 
(58) 




JXL 





J E S TO BE READ 

ALMOST UP. 

TXTHERE were you struck?" the captain cried 
* * To him who charged on Lookout's side, 
Who charged in all his martial pride, 
Up! over rocky ridge and rut, 
Up! where the paths of life were shut, 
Up! where the death- winged bullets sped, 
Up! over dying men and dead; 
Nothing could stay his onward tread 
Until — that hurtling scrap of lead. 

"Where were you struck?" the captain cried, 

Between the waves of battle's tide, 

Then, half in anguish, half in pride, 

Though drinking of the bitter cup, 

The soldier answered, "Almost up!" 

"No, no; your wound — where hit, I mean?" 

But, even in that final scene, 

True to his last heroic will, 

"'Most up! 'most up!" he murmured still. 

Not where his shattered body bled, 
Not where his veins poured out their red, 
But where his last hard duty led, 
Was all the dying soldier's thought. 
And may we learn the lesson taught! — 
No matter where our lives are cast, 
In sunny peace or battle's blast, 
May it be said, when we have passed, 
"He struggled upwards to the last!" 

(59) 






£Xi 





BUT THEY DIDN'T. 

^\ HARRY came along the lane 
^-^ And he was very late, 

He hurried on to catch a train 

And had no time to wait. 
He must hasten! — but against the pane 

He caught a glimpse of Kate, 
And he didn't, he didn't, he didn't. 

O, Katie had her doughnuts cut, 
Her sponge was light as air; 

Her pies were in the oven shut 
And needed all her care; 

She must give them every moment, but 
She spied young Harry there 
And she didn't, she didn't, she didn't. 

O, Harry stopped and spoke a word 

And spoke it very low, 
And yet I think that Katie heard 

And still believed it so, 
Tho' all the while the youth averred 

That he would have to go, 

But he didn't, he didn't, he didn't. 

O, Katie said the fire was warm 

And she was "like to drop;" 
And Harry seemed to think his arm 

Was needed as a prop; 
(60) 



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It 




And Katie was in such alarm 
She said that he must stop! 

But he didn't, he didn't, he didn't. 

For he said he held unto the best 

When he had proved it so, 
And she drooped her head upon his breast 

And said that he must go; 
And he said he'd leave that instant 

Lest he heard a cruel "No!" 



(61) 



I 




£XL 




EVOLUTION. 

TVT OW when the original anthropoid 

A * First found that his pimpling skin was void 

Of hair, 

And bare, 
Some ganglial glimmer within the brute 
Impelled him to look for a substitute. 

That fact, 

That act, 
Was civilization's primal spurt, 
For a man isn't man without — a shirt. 

Then followed an aeon, more or less, 
With never a change in the creature's dress. 

Mayhap 

Some chap 
May have added breeches, or even a coat, 
But the purpose was still the same, you'll note 

Until 

Some thrill 
Of pride in appearance began to grow, 
And he added an outer shirt — for show. 

Some anthropologists, you may assert, 
Say the proud preceded the useful shirt. 

'Tis true 

They do. 
But to answer that I need only say 
That I am writing this verse, not they. 
(62) 





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And if 

You sniff 
At that, I furthermore plainly state 
My poetical license is paid to date. 

Then some brave serf, in a fortunate hour, 
Destroyed his oppressor and rose to power; 

And then 

When men 
Would sneer at the telltale gall and fleck 
Which showed where the chain had thralled 
neck a 

His need 

Decreed 
That the neck of his shirt be fashioned taller 
As a "badge of place." And thus — the collar. 



his 



Another step in enlightened pride, 
And around the collar a cloth was tied. 

Complete 

And neat 
It looked, till one with a golden pin 
Jauntily stuck the ornament in. 

Pride vied 

With pride, 
And luxury now with luxury met, 
And a sparkling jewel in the pin was set. 

But the point of the tale is yet to come, 
For take the jewel in your finger and thumb 
(63) 





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RIMES TO BE READ 





And try 

The ply 
Of collar and neck-dress through and through, 
And the prideful shirt and the useful, too 

And then 

Again! 



And the polished pin which you have employed 
Has scratched the original anthropoid! 



(64) 



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Quaint Characters 






SJX 



RIMES TO BE READ 





"FIN DE SIECLE." 

HP HIS life's a hollow bubble, 

■*■ Don't you know? 

Just a painted piece of twouble, 

Don't you know? 
We come to earth to cwy, 
We gwow oldeh and we sigh, 
Oldeh still and then we die, 

Don't you know? 



It is all a howwid mix, 

Don't you know? 
Business, love, and politics, 

Don't you know? 
Clubs and pawties, cliques and sets, 
Fashions, follies, sins, wegwets, 
Stwuggle, stwife, and cigawettes, 

Don't you know? 



And we wowwy through each day, 

Don't you know? 
In a sort of, kind of, way, 

Don't you know? 
We are hungwy, we are fed, 
Some few things are done and said, 
We are tihed, we go to bed, 

Don't you know? 
(67) 





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Business? O, that's beastly twade, 

Don't you know? 
Something's lost or something's made, 

Don't you know? 
And you wowwy, and you mope 
And you hang youah highest hope 
On the pwice, pe'haps, of soap! 

Don't you know? 

Politics? O, just a lawk, 

Don't you know? 
Just a nightmaeh in the dawk, 

Don't you know? 
You pe'spiah all day and night 
And afteh all the fight, 
Why pe'haps the w'ong man's wight, 

Don't you know? 

Society? Is dwess, 

Don't you know? 
And a sou'ce of much distwess, 

Don't you know? 
To detehmine what to weah, 
When to go and likewise wheah 
And how to pawt youah haih, 

Don't you know? 

Love? O, yes! You meet some gi'l, 

Don't you know? 
And you get in such a whi'l, 

Don't you know? 

(68) 





£X3= 





Then you kneel down on the floah 
And imploah and adoah — 
And it's all a beastly boah! 
Don't you know? 

So theah's weally nothing in it, 

Don't you know? 
And we live just for the minute, 

Don't you know? 
For when you've seen and felt, 
Dwank and eaten, heahd and smelt, 
Why all the cawds are dealt, 

Don't you know? 



You've one consciousness, that's all, 

Don't you know? 
And one stomach, and it's small, 

Don't you know? 
You can only weah one tie, 
One eye-glass in youah eye, 
And one coffin when you die, 

Don't you know? 



(69) 






DO, 




DE GOOFEH-JACK. 

TTVE cunjuh-doctah, he mek de cunjuh-bag, 

■*^ He mek de cunjuh-bag, he mek de cunjuh-bag; 

He done mek it out-er a shirt-tail rag 

Dat come f'om a blue-gum niggah. 

Den he put in de rabbit-foot en alligateh aigg, 

He put in de penny dat a dumb man baig, 

En a snake's front toof dat stuck a niggah's laig,— 

En he put in anothah Til jiggah. 

Den he tek dat bag en he cunjuh you, 

He cunjuh you, he cunjuh you; 

Whateveh he say, he kin mek you do; 

You got no chance en dat's a libbin' fac', 

Onless you got you a goofeh-jack. 

De voodoo-doctah he mek de goofeh-jack, 
He mek de goofeh-jack, he mek de goofeh-jack, 
F'om a stick dat grows in a erf-quake crack, 
Wif a shape lek a bow-legged niggah. 
Den he wrap dat stick wif a li'l flannel rag 
Dat once was a part-er a cunjuh bag, 
En he say some woids lek "Doodlegumbledag!" 
En some otheh woids a heap sight biggeh. 
Den if some low niggah done cunjuh you, 
Done cunjuh you, done cunjuh you, 
Des you grab dat stick, for I tells you true, 
You got no chance en dat's a libbin' fac', 
Onless you got you a goofeh-jack. 



(70) 







=Da 





Dey-us ol' Miss Riley was a-was'in' away, 
A-was'in' away, des was'in' right away, 
Eatin* bo'lles er medicine ev'ry single day, 
But I wa'n't gwine for to trus' it; 
So I des git a goofeh en slip' it in de baid, 
En it sho would a cu'ed her, lek de voodoo say'd 
But de ve'y next mawnin', suh, she wake up daid! 
'Caze she roll on de goofeh-jack en bus' it. 
So if some low niggah done cunjuh you, 
Done cunjuh you, done cunjuh you, 
You be right smawt caihful now, whateveh you 

do; 
'Caze you got no chance, en dat's a libbin' fac\ 
Onless you got a goofeh-jack! 



(7i) 



J 




£Xk 




RIMES TO BE READ 




THE OLD MAN KNOWS. 

"PJAN, you'll never find another 

*^ Like the hand of yer old mother, 

Which has worked and won yer bread. 

Yes, more'n that if all be said, 

Fer she won and then she made it, 

An' such bread! You wouldn't trade it 

Fer no banquet, if you knew 

How you'll hunger when she's through 

Doin' fer you. Don't you s'pose 

Like enough the old man knows? 

Yes, I know it ain't as milky 
In its looks, nor yet as silky 
In its feel as some hands be. 
But if these old eyes can see, 
Ev'ry line's a line of beauty, 
Er a mark fer well done duty! 
No use talkin', Dan, it's so. 
Guess the old man ought to know. 

'Nd how ev'ry faded finger 
Loves to touch you 'nd to linger 
Round yer hair. You'll understand 
Better, some day, 'bout that hand. 
Nothin' else can do as much as 
Them same tender, peaceful touches. 

(72) 




JXL 





How they soothe *nd how old sorrow 
Sneaks, until some sad to-morrow. 
Dan, O Dan, the old man knows, 
He had a mother, don't you s'pose? 



(73) 





DO, 





ADAM. 

A DAM, made of common earth, 
*^ Seemed to be of little worth. 
Giving him his full desert, 
Still he seemed as cheap as dirt. 

Smacked a good deal of the soil, 
Adam did, but shirked all toil. 
Yet he asked no man for trust, 
Being simply made of dust. 

Sandy beard and sandy hair; 
Also had a stony stare; 
And before his flesh ran blood 
I suppose his name was mud. 

Poor old Adam, formed in clay, 
Wasn't of the stuff to stay. 
One more process was required; 
That's the reason he was fired! 



(74) 




£XL 



r\ 




NOT A COON-SONG COON. 

T 'SE a right smaht niggeh, 
**" I kin read en I kin figgeh, 

En I doesn't nuvver, nuvver play no craps. 
I doesn't give a button 
Fo' a cake-walk or a cuttin', 

En dat am what de trouble is, pe'haps. 
I doesn't spen' meh dollahs 
On no shiny shoes en collahs, 

En meh habits sholy ought to make a hit; 
But de ladies seems to shake me, 
En dey's not a one '11 take me — 

I ain't nuvver is had a gal yit! 



Dey wuz coffee-cullud Jinny 
En Sooky Loo en Minny 

En freckled Fan en Mandy Ann en Sue; 
Dey was Tildy, dey was Dinah 
En Luce en little Lina; 

(I nuvver wanted on'y des a few!) 
Dey was Nance dat married Peter, 
En I'se moughty glad he beat her; 

En Ulussus wa'n't no better, ca'se dey fit; 
But she wouldn't leave him, no, suh, 
Wouldn't marry me; en so, suh, 

I ain't nuvver is had a gal yit ! 

(75) 





DO, 




RIMES TO BE READ. 





I has sometimes wunde'd 

Ef dese niggehs has 'em cunjuh'd; 

Ef dey hasn't, it am somepin moughty queer! 
Dey is Race-Hoss Bennie, 
He doesn't seem so many, 

But he gin'ally gits married ev'y year! 
Dey was Pete have seven 
En he gwinter come eleven 

En' Ulussus have a dozen 'fore he quit; 
Dey all done have so many 
Dat dey has n't luff me any — 

I ain't nuvver is had a gal yit! 



(76) 





r 



=DG 



RIME S I B E R E A D 




AN UNCONVENTIONAL RUSTIC. 

pO'TRY fellers says we like to drink 

■*" Worter from the ol' mill stream, 

Like to git down on the brink 

So's it runs right down our stummick — "like a 

dream," 
Says them po'try men. 
Then again 

They say how we love to draw it from the well — 
"Moss-bound bucket," and that sort o' thin\ 
Says we much prefer a gourd, er ole sea shell, 
Er a rusty dipper, made o' tin 
Fer to drink it in, 
But, by Gee! 
Yer cut glass, Sewers chiny stuff is good enough 

fer me. 
Po'try fellers says there ain't no bed 
Quite so good as that un in the old homestead. 
I say durn it 
And dad burn it! 

Durn its feather bed-tick that's so lean 
Yeh sag between 

All the slats and almost touch the floor 
If yeh weighs ten pounds or more. 
If you're thin 
Not a bone fits in 
To a soft spot 
Like it ought, 



(77) 






Dd 





RIMES TO BE READ 




But rubs, rubs, rubs, on some blame slat; 
So if I know where I'm at.. 
Hairy, springy, couchy city beds'll do 
Fer me, I jus' tell you! 

Po'try fellers says if we have stacks 

Of ham fer breakfas', coffee an' flap-jacks, 

With a dinner of biled cabbage an' corn beef, 

An' p'serves an' pie fer supper, you got lief 

To have all the rest. Is 'at so? 

Guess if they met me they'd likely know 

That I'd take some olives, lemon ice, 

Lobster salad, bullion an' a slice 

Of boiled tarpot, with some tutty-frutty, 

An* a little of that stuff, a la spaghutty, 

Frummidge, ice cream an' assorted pie, 

Quail on puddin', sherbet, oyster fry — 

Anythin' else yeh got, 

An' fetch her quick an' hot. 

Coffee? No, sir, take the stuff away; 

Pomeroy Chartruse, extry dry, will do me any day. 

Po'try fellers says we love to walk, 
'Cause it's healthfuller an' lots more air 
Sizzles through yer lungs, an' they talk 
How when we do ride 'at we don't care 
Fer no bridles, but jest slides 
On a horse an' gits. 
Say it sort o' fits 
Us most to take straw-rides, 
(78) 




f 



£XX 




'R else to ride the good ol'-fashioned way, 

In the family shay, 

Which ain't got no springs, 

Ner cushions, an' which slings 

You'n yer girl together (which yeh like) 

Till it steadies when yeh strike 

The ol' turn-pike. 

Po'try fellers talks that way, 

But a-speakin* fer myself, I say 

A autymobile-tally-ho will do me any day. 

Po'try fellers further says our homes 

Is pomes, 

Says the flicker of the fire-place is a sight 

Chuck full of warm delight, 

While the winter breezes kindly fans yer backs 

Through the cracks; 

Says the suller an' the butt'ry is the best 

To keep things sweet in, 

An' the sittin' room's fer rest, 

An' the kitchen fer to eat in. 

Says there ain't no place on earth quite like the 

attic, 
Speshly when the weather's rainy an' rumattic, 
An' it spatters on the roof an' on the pane, 
(Not the rumytism doesn't, but the rain!) 
Which is very slick an' pretty, 
But them houses in the city, 
All fixed up like ole Queen Annie's used to be, 



(79) 





=90: 




Brown stone roof an* mansard front — by Gee! 
Such a house is good enough fer me! 

Po'try fellers takes a lot o' pains 

To show they got no brains, 

But the foolest thing they does — it seems to me — 

Is to chalk 

Down the darndest lot of words you ever see 

An* say that's how we talk. 

Gosh all hemlock! Why they chop 

Half the words to pieces an' they stop 

'Fore they've finished spellin' of 'em, 

An' they're full of little wiggles up above 'em. 

Why, ther spellin' would disgrace the dumbest fool 

In the spellin' class at Districk School. 

An' ther grammar's the most worse you ever see! 

Why, if you an' me 

Couldn't talk no more correcter — Geemeenee! 

'Scuse me, but it makes me hot to see things wrote 

that way. 
Good, old Angly Saxon English talk is my ch'ice 

any day. 



(80) 



\(v 



f 



DO, 




BEFORE PLAYING TINKERTOWN. 

(A Distinguished Citizen Advises the Advance 
Agent.) 

QJO you're goan to give a show? 
*^ Well, I s'pose you likely know 
Yer own bus'ness, but I'm glad 
— Ez fer me — I never had 
Money in the show biz here, 
Fer our folks is mighty queer. 
An' you see when they first built 
Our new Op'ry House, they kilt 
The hull business, 'cause they give 
More shows than could run — an' live. 



"Give two in one week, one time. 

One was minstrels. They was prime ! 

But what kilt us was the other; 

Some blame lecturer or-ruther 

Talked about a Chiny wall 

An' a Pyramids an' all 

That there sort o' rot. An' so, 

Bein' as folks had paid, you know, 

Fifteen cents to see a show, 

Lots of 'em felt ruther sore 

An' don't go to shows no more. 



<8i) 





£X1 





RIMES TO BE READ 





"Course your show is good? No doubt. 
But you see the town's showed out; 
Less'n three weeks back we had 
Hamlut. Had it purty bad. 
Actors — they was purty fair, 
Speshly one with yeller hair. 
He had talunt! He could shout 
An* jes' drown the others out! 
But the play itself was sad. 
'Sides it was a draggy, bad 
Sort of sadness. Didn't begin 
To come up to ol' East Lynne! 



"Jabez Tubbs, he sez, sez he, 
'I'll take ol' East Lynne fer me, 
Mebbe these new plays is fine, 
But I'll take the ol' fer mine.' 
'Scuse me fer goan on this way, 
But I'm 'feared yer show won't pay. 



"It's a bad week fer a show, 
'Cause most folks that gits to go 
Is a-restin' up jest now 
Fer the Social. An' that's how 
Things most always is 'round here. 
P'r'aps there's nothin' fer a year, 
Then, first thing a feller knows, 
We're just overrun with shows. 
(82) 





f 



=00= 




RIMES TO BE READ 




"PVaps a little later might 
Find a better week an* night. 
Still, I dunno, fer ye see 
P'tracted meetin* soon'll be, 
An* of course you know that's free, 
An' that nachelly kills a show 
Where you got to pay to git to go." 



(83) 





fXk 




RIMES TO BE READ 




A LITTLE SAUNTER. 

m \KT HEN the sun's a-comin' up 'nd ole Earth is 
VV wet, 
Jest as though he'd washed his face 'nd hedn't dried 

it yet; 
Birds fer miles 'nd miles around chipperin' 'n* 

singin', 
Pigs a-gruntin' music fer the feed the man's a 

bringin', 
Rooster crowin* fit to split round the kitchen door, 
Ans'erin' "Good mornin'," to a half a dozen 

more, — 
Other folks can roust around, but for me I wanter 

Take a little saunter, 
Fill up full of green 'nd blue in a little saunter. 



When the sun's a-goin' down, lazy ez you please, 
Settin' good example fer a man to take his ease; 
Cows a-lyin', chewin', 'nd a-wobblin', early bat 
Er a sparreh, half asleep, flies a-past yer hat; 
When yev hed yer supper 'nd the world seems good; 
When the air, jest lazin' round, smells of piney 

wood, — 
'Tain't no time to roust around, 'nd fer me, I wanter 

Take a little saunter, 
Jest hang back 'n' let my legs take a little saunter. 



(84) 




£Xi 




When you almost feel the moon a-shinin* on yer 

back, 
(See her in the warter 'nd she seems to make a track 
Leadin' off to Heaven, jest a easy distance walkin';) 
When it's all so still, a sound seems like silence 

talking 
Starry eyes a-gawpin* like the childern's to a story; 
Room fer nothin' nowhere 'ceptin' night *nd God *nd 

glory, — 
I jest dassent roust around, *nd I never wanter 

Do no more than saunter, 
Fill up full of shiny peace in a little saunter! 



(85) 






£CL 



RIMES TO BE READ 




REVENGE. 
TTEN ich und Gretchen married got, 



V 



Mein olt frient Dunkelschwarzenrath, 



He don'd coom vere my veddin ees, 
Becos I nefer gone by hees! 

Aber, I get me efen yet. 
Dot Dunkelschwarzenrath is deat. 
I don'd go by hees fooneral — nein! — 
Becos he nefer gone by mine! 



(86) 





=90: 




UNVERSTAENDLICH. 

T\ HE contrariest t'ing on dhe Erd is men, 
**-^ Aber vimmens arr twice so contrary again, 
Andt I am yoost so contrary as you, 
Andt you arr as worse as dhe worst one, too; 

Now, ain'd dhat zo? 

You like to haf hoonger by dinner, you say, 
Aber vhy do you eadt, so dhat hoonger go Vay? 
You like to be tired, so you schleep like a top, 
Andt you like to go schleep, so dhat tired feeling 
shtop; 

Now, ain'd dhat zo? 

You like to have sugar on sauer t'ings you eadt 
Andt you like to haf sauer mit dhe t'ings vhat arr 

sweet. 
You like to be cold vhen dhe vetter is hot. 
Andt vhen it is cold, ach, how varm you vould got! 

Now, ain'd dhat zo? 

How you shdare at dhe man vhat can valk up dhe 

street 
On his handts, yet you valk twice so goodt on your 

feet. 
Vhat a long mind you haf, if I am in your debt, 
Budt if you arr in mine, O, how quick you forget! 

Now, ain'd dhat zo? 



(87) 




=DQ: 





Are you single? You like to be married, of course. 
Are you married? Most likely you like a divorce! 
Andt if you vas get you unmarried, why dhen 
You go righd avay and got married again. 

Now, ain'd dhat zo? 

You vant yoost a liddle more money? Dhat's true; 
Andt dhere's Mistare Vanderbilt; he vants dhat too. 
You remember dhat time dhat you wish you arr 

deadt? 
Budt if I trry to kill you, you boost in my headt; 

Now, ain'd dhat zo? 

Zo, I t'ink I pelief only haf vhat I know 
Andt dhe half I pelief is dhe part vhat ain'd zo. 
Aber, I don'd complain, for dhat makes me no use, 
For if I am a Esel, vhy you arr a goose; 

Now, ain'd dhat zo? 

It is bedter to laugh; it is foolish to fight 

Yoost because I am wrong and because you ain'd 

right. 
It is bedter to laugh mit dhe vorld, up andt down 
From dhe sole of our headt to dhe foot of our 

crown; Now, ain'd dhat zo? 

Zo, dhen you laugh at me andt dhen I laugh at you, 
Andt dhe v more dhat you laugh vhy dhe more I 

laugh, too, 
Andt ve laugh till ve cry! Vhen ve cry, aber dhen, 
Ve will bot' feel zo goot ve go laughing again! 

Now, ain'd dhat zo? 
(88) 




c* 



£0= 





KATIE AN' ME. 

T£" ATIE an me a'n't ingaged anny moor. 

**^" Och, but the heart of me's breakin', fer sure! 

The moon has turned grane and the sun has turned 

yallow, 
And Oi am turned both and a different fallow. 
The poipe of me loiftoime is losin' its taste; 
Some illigant whuskey is goin' to waste; 
Me heart is that impty and also me arrum; 
Pertaties an' bacon have lost all their charrum, 
And Oi feel like a tombstone, wid crape on the dure 
Since Katie and me a'n't ingaged anny moor. 

Yit most of the world is a-movin' alang 

As if there was nawthin' at all goin' wrang. 

Oi notice the little pigs lie in the mud, 

An* the fool of a cow is still chewm' her cud; 

The shky is still blue and the grass is still bright; 

The stars shine in hivin in paceful delight; 

The little waves dance on the brist of the lake; 

Tim Donnelly's dead an' they're havm' a wake, 

An' the world's rich in joy! and it's only me's poor, 

Since Katie and me a'n't ingaged anny moor. 

She was always that modest and swate. Oi declare 
She wud blush full as rid as her illigant hair 
At the t'ought of another man stalin' the taste 
Of her lips, or another man's arrum 'round her waist. 



(89) 





=DQ: 




An* now — och, McCarney, luk out, or Oi'U break 
Yer carcass in fragmints an' dance at yer wake, 
As you're dancin' at Donnelly's! What shud Oi fear? 
Purgatory? Not mooch, fer the same is right here. 
Wid me heart on the briler, an' niver a cure, 
Since Katie and me a'n't ingaged anny moor. 



(90) 





£a 




RIMES TO BE READ 





DAT GAWGY WATAHMILLON. 

f~\ , DAT Gawgy watahmillon, an* dat gal ob 

^* Gawgy wif 'm! 

She foun' 'm an* she poun' 'm an' he ripe enough to 

lif 'm. 
I tote 'm to de well an' den we cool 'm in de watah, 
An* we bress de Lawd foh libin', like a Gawgy nig- 

gah ought to. 
She pat him an' she punk him, like ol' mammy wif 

de chillun, 
An' ma haht it done keep punkin' ev'y time she punk 

de millon! 

I look into huh yalla eyes an' feel dat I can trus' 'm, 
An' den I take de millon an' I drop 'm down an' bus' 

m. 
O, dat Gawgy watahmillon wif de sweet an' coolin' 

flowin' ! 
Poke youah face deep down, ma honey, an' jes' keep 

youah mouf a-goin'. 
Dar ain't no use ob talkin', but I 'clar to Gord I'se 

willin' 
Foh to nebeh hab no heab'n 'cept dat Gawgy gal an' 

millon! 



Foh dey filled de haht an' stomach ob dis happy 

Gawgy niggah, 
An* he couldn' be no fullah, 'less de Lohd done make 

him biggah. 

(9i) 





:Da 




RIMES TO BE READ. 




Lohdy, Lohd! Fse done been dreamin' an* my haht 

is mos' a-breakin', 
An* ma lips dey is a-burnin' an' ma stomach is a 

achin\ 
I been dreamin' ob de summah an' ma mouf is jes' 

a-fillm' 
Foh dat honey gal ob Gawgy an' dat Gawgy watah- 

millon! 



(92) 



=DQ= 




NATHAN'S FLAT. 

TVT ATHAN wrote that he 'n' his wife was livin' in 

A>l a fiat. 

"Gracious me!" says mother, "why, what sort o' 

place is that?" 
"Well," I says, "it's one o' them there places, don't 

you know, 
'At folks live in, likely," an' mother says, "Jesso!" 
But 'bout a half hour later, she broke out, "I'd give 

a cent 
If I could sort o' puzzle out what Nathan really 

meant." 



Now, ain't that like a woman? You can tell 'em 

what is what; 
You can show 'em plain as preachin', but it's just as 

like as not 
When ye've argied an' convinced 'em an' yeh think 

ye've surely fetched 'em, 
They'll bust out just where they started, same as 

though yeh hadn't teched 'em. 
"Well," I says, "we'll go to see 'em, then, an' that'll 

stop yer clatter," 
For I own that I was cur'ous like, myself, about the 

matter ! 
So we went an' Nathan met us. Wa'n't we glad to 

see his face! 
An' he rid us on a cable till we reached a stoppin' 

place, 

(93) 



DO, 




An' says, "Here we are!" an* first I knowed I was 

a-standin' there 
A-gawpin' at a buildin' that was higher in the air 
Than the Presbyterian steeple. An* I says, "My 

conscience, Nat, 
It can't be sech a stuck-up thing is what yeh call a 

flat?" 
But he only smiled an* nodded an* he took us in the 

hall, 
An' mother says, "Why, Nathan, dew yeh occipy it 

all?" 

Then we got into a little coop, an' Nathan he says 
"Seven!" 

An' in another second we was shootin' up to 
heaven. 

Mother shet her teeth an' helt her breath an* trem- 
bled 'roun' the eyes, 

An* my heart fell in my stomach, it was sech a sud- 
den rise. 

Then, in another jiffy, we was into Nathan's flat — 

Six rooms, about the size o' three, an' darn small 
three at that. 

But some things was pretty handy. They was places 
in the wall 

Where ye'd go an* talk to people 'at yeh couldn't 
see at all. 

There was one place where ye'd turn a wheel to 
squirt a little heat, 

An' the cellar was a little box containin' things to 
eat. (94) 




£XL 




Then there was one extravygance 'at mother 

thought a sin; 
They had spiled a good-sized clo'se-press fer to put 

a bath-tub in. 
Gee! it made me think o' tombstones, it was all so 

white and shiny, 
But mother she peeked into it an* says "I vum; it's 

chiny!" 
Nathan's wife was kind o' laughin', so I fixed my 

eyes on her, 
An' says, solemn, "Read yer Bible of the whited 

sepulchre ! 



"Bath-tubs! Why, if I'd a mind to, I could tell yeh 

pretty quick 
Of the time when Nathan's bath-tub was the hull o' 

Simpson's creek! 
An' the sunshine was his only towel, or if by any 

chance, 
He couldn't wait fer dryin', why he used his coat an* 

pants. 
An' on Sat'dy nights in winter, mother'd fetch the 

washin'-tub, 
An' she'd heat enough of water fer all han's to take 

a scrub, 
An* she'd pester Nat, 'Git ready!' till at last he'd 

sort o' squeak, 
'Ma, I honest don't believe I hardly need a bath this 

week!' 

(95) 




=DQ= 





But she'd shet him in the kitchen, an' he'd grunt an* 

puff an' spatter, 
Till you'd thought a steamboat bust-up was the least 

could be the matter." 

"Yes, an' then I'd mop," says mother, "an' blow out 

the kitchen light, 
An* I'd foller Nat upstairs to kiss my little boy 

'Good night!' 
An' it kind o' seemed that me an' God was watchin* 

there by Nat, 
But I don't believe I'd ever have sech feelin's in a 

flat!" 



(96) 



P 




£Q* 



RIMES TO BE READ 





'OUR CLUB."— THE IRISH MEMBER'S 
TOAST. 



THE sharp edge of hunger was turned and the 
Chair 
Arose to inform us we all might prepare 
For a story, a toast, or any good bit 
Which entered the head of an owner of wit, 
And for fear Brother Milliken's tongue should grow 

balky, 
By mixing Kentucky with part of Milwaukee, 
We'd hear from him first, and his toast was "Our 

Club." 



As soon as his fellows had laughed at the rub 
Which the chairman had given the Irishman rose, 
Upholding his liquid, and said, "I suppose 
Ivry mother's gossoon of ye's achin' to drink 
The toast to our club, so let yer bowls clink! 
Yez can drink it in potcheen or drink it in watter, 
An', barrin' the taste, I would say, drink the latter; 
Fer if yez do not, I will give ye fair warnin', 
Ye'll find that it's watter ye want in the marnin'. 
But drink watter now an' ye'll feel extry foine 
An' won't be a-wantin' a hat noomber noine, 
Fer I'll tell ye the trut — to the shame pf the divil— 
It don't do to treat the potcheen over civil. 



(97) 




=DQ= 




Just as sure as ye open yer door to the cratur, 
He hints that his brother is finer or nater, 
An' then they both say that their coosin is swater, 
An* then that the family should be more complater, 
An' they have a gay toime an' ye find, to yer sorra, 
Though ye'll swear they were lodged in yer 

stomach, begorra, 
Yet all of e'm's oop in yer head, by tomorra! 

"But drink to our club in what liquid ye wish; 
Drink deep as a camel and free as a fish. 
Though we call it a club, let that club be a staff! 
Let it always be used in a brother's behalf — 
A support for his need and a rest for his hand! 
Though we call it a club, let that club be a wand! — 
The same as thim wands that the fairies used much. 
Let no heart be so hard but to melt at its touch! 
As we call it a club, when we see anny wrang, 
Let us take up our club an' go after it Strang; 
Let it swing for the right, brothers, nightly and 

daily, 
Though we call it a club, let it be a shillaly!" 



(98) 





f 



=90: 




"OUR LADIES."— THE POET'S TOAST. 

A TOAST from the poet, I think, would be pleas- 
ant," 
Cried he at the banquet's head. 

"A toast from the poet!" cried every one present, 
And the poet arose and said: 



"Mr. Chairman, I greet you and all of your host; 
My comrades, your friendship is ever my boast; 
And lastly, fair ladies, 'tis you whom I toast. 
Though I mention you last, it is not my intent 
To reckon you least. First in worth is not meant 
When we place the soft mollusk or thin consomme 
At the top of the menu, and no one will say 
The piece de resistance is less of a dish 
Just because further down on the li§t than the fish. 



"Mother Eve, you remember, was last in formation, 
Which proves she was apex of all the creation, 
For first appeared grasses and herbs and the fruits, 
And then came the fishes, the fowls and the brutes, 
Then Adam; and mark you how each form grew 

higher. 
But still there was left something more to desire, 
For though all life was there, flora, fauna and hu- 
man, 
Paradise could not be until also was woman. 

LOFC. <99) 





£0= 




RIMES TO BE READ 





And so she was made from a small, bony part 

Which is nearest (please note well the symbol) 
man's heart. 

And hence, since that time, 'tis man's chiefest en- 
deavor 

To get back that rib, and 'twill be so forever. 

"How broad is the theme of my toasting — Our 

Ladies! 
Proud daughters of Guelph and the Misses 

O'Gradys, 
The Fraulein of Berlin, the Donas of Cadiz, 
The Annas, the Fannies, the Adas, the Sadies, 
All, all, in some masculine hearts are 'Our Ladies.' 

"Our Ladies? Our mothers, queen-angels of Earth. 
Our wives, or our sweethearts — tongue fails at your 

worth ! 
O, is there a grief which o'ershadows the day 
Which by woman's soft breath is not wafted away? 
O, is there a heart, adamantine, austere, 
Which melts not beneath a pure, womanly tear? 
And what soured ascetic who does not rejoice 
In the grace of her glance, of her smile, of her 

voice? 

"O, have you an armor, so tempered, so true, 
That a woman's sharp tongue cannot pierce through 
and through? 

(ioo) 





=DQ= 




And tell me of arguments, reasons or laws, 
Which bear half of the weight of a woman's 
cause.' 



'Be- 



"Our Ladies, enduring, considerate, meek; 

Our Ladies, contrary, irrational, weak; 

Kind hearted, yet cruel; obliging, perverse, 

Which is why they are taken 'for better or worse.' 

"Do you think the description is rather complex? 
So it is, but just so is the feminine sex; 
Yet without the sex, Heaven itself were a Hades, 
For Heaven is anywhere where are Our Ladies." 



(ioi) 





DO, 




AFTER-DINNER APOLOGY 
COMTE CRAPAUD. 



OF LE 



| VOULD you make ze little speak avec plaisir, 
"*■ Boat et ess not moach long zat I been here, 
Ant I am timid zat I speak soam wrong, 
Becos I know zis langvids not moach long. 



"Zis Englees langvids I not understand me moach. 

Eet ees not logical, eef I can jodge, 

For eet ees not long since I am invite 

Au Chi-ca-go to see ze many sight. 

Ant zere I fint I alvays spoke ze vay 

I do not spoke to spoke ze vhat I say. 

Zey to me show ze building high, high, high! 

Zey call him, voila! scraper-of-ze-sky. 

I look oapon ze mud down at ze street 

Ant wish zey had ze scraper-of-ze-street. 



"Zey take me to ze yard vhere ees ze stock — 

Ze peeg — ten tousan' tousan' peeg — vat you call 

'hock!' 
Zat night at a re-cep-se-ong, zey to me say, 
'Ant how you like Chi-ca-go zees fairst day?' 
I say 'Oh, magnifique! I not can like it more; 
I never meet so many hock in all my life before!' 
But zen I fint I have not spoke ze vay 
I ought to spoke to spoke ze vhat I say. 
(102) 




DO, 




"Zen some one speak about ze trust ant I say out, 
'Vhat ees zees trust I hear so moach about?' 
Zey say eet ees a com-bin-a-se-ong of ze stock. 
'Stock? stock?' I say. 'Zen ees ze trust more 

"hock!"' 
Zey say zat I have right ant zen zey roar, 
Ant ah! I fint I am a zhoke once more. 
I fint zere ees a trust in zees — in zat, 
Trust in ze shoe down here, oap in ze hat, 
A trust in vhat you eat, you drink, you wear, 
A trust in eferyzing ant eferyvhere! 
By gar, I meet a man zat have a vife — 
La plus jolie I ever see in all my life. 
Zat genteel man he say, he tells me, sir, 
He have a trust, a pairfect trust — in her! 
Trust in hees vife! ma foi! I am so shock! 
Ant zen I ask vhat he will take for all ze stock. 
But ah! I find he have not spoke ze vay 
He ought to spoke to spoke ze vat he say. 

"For eet ees soach a fonny langvids, oui! 
Not long ago, one evening, coam to me 
One ver' good friend, as eet ees getting dark 
Ant say, 'Coam, let us go upon ze lark,' 
I say 'Eh bien, I go,' for I not like to tell 
Zat I not understand him ver' moach well. 
A lark? Zat ees a bird, selon Webstaire, 
Ze gentilman zat write ze dictionaire; 
Boat, ah! I fint I haf not understood. 
I fint zis lark ees not a bird moach good. 
(103) 




=DQ= 



1 




RIMES TO BE READ 




"Eet ees ver' late zat I am get to bed 

Ant zen I feel so strange oap in ze head. 

I am so bad I not can sleep, ant so 

I rise moach early ant I go below; 

Ant zere I fint ze hotel-clerk who coam ant say 

'Monsieur, you get oap wiz ze lark to-day!* 

I say 'Non, non, madame; oh, my poor head! 

Eet ees wiz zat bad bird I went to bed! 

I not get oap wiz him. You are moach wrong; 

I am alreaty wiz zat bird too long/ 

"He laugh so moach I seenk his face ees break; 
I not know why onless I speak meestake; 
Ant so, I will not make ze speak to-night, 
For I am timid zat I not speak right." 



(104) 





=£0= 




RIMES TOBE READ 




"THE OTHER ONE WAS BOOTH." 

(Suggested by conversations with certain "retired" 
actors.) 

TVTOW, by the rood, as Hamlet says, it grieves me 

A ^ sore to say 

The stage is not as once it was, when I was wont 

to play; 
'Tis true Hank Irving, dear old chap, still gives a 

decent show, 
And Mansfield and Ed Willard really act the best 

they know; 
'Tis true that Duse and Bernhardt, for we mustn't be 

too hard, 
Are very fair (for women) though of course they 

ought to guard 
Against some bad-art tendencies; but as for all the 

rest, 
There's hardly one, I may say none, who stands the 

artist's test. 
True artists are a rare, rare breed; there were but 

two, forsooth, 
In all me time, the stage's prime; and the other one 

was Booth. 



"Why, Mac — I mean Macready — but we always 

called him Mac, 
And old Ned Forrest used to say, or so they once 

told Jack; 

(105) 



\(J 



=£0= 




RIMES TO BE READ. 




Or, that is, Jack McCullough, that — well, this is 
what they said; 

'There were but two who really knew how Shake- 
speare should be read.' 

They didn't mean the younger Kean, or Jack; and 
so perhaps 

It caused a little jealousy among the lesser chaps. 

They said that Larry Barrett was entitled to re- 
spect, 

But as for Tom Salvini, well, his dago dialect 

Would never do for Shakespeare; so to tell the sim~ 
pie truth, 

There were only two men in it; and the other one 
was Booth. 




"Don't think conceit is in me tongue; 'tis some- 
thing I detest; 
But I may say that in me day I've figured with the 

best. 
Why, Kalamazoo, and Oshkosh, too, and Kankakee 

as well, 
Went fairly wild, nor man, nor child, stirred when 

the curtain fell. 
The S. R. O. was hung each night; our show was 

such a rage 
They took the ushers off the floor and ushered 

from the stage. 
From Buzzard's Bay to San Jose, from Nawrleans 

to Duluth, 
Just two stars hit a little bit; and the other one was 

Booth. (106) 







=00= 




RIMES TO BE READ 




"I liked Ned Booth, for he was such a royal-hearted 

fellow, 
We never had a jealousy. When he put on Othello 
His Iago was much like to mine, likewise his stage 

direction; 
But what cared Ed. what critics said, since I made 

no objection? 
Ah, me! That day is past; the play has lost its hon- 
ored station; 
Who reads aright rage, sorrow, fright, or tragic 

desolation? 
Aye, who can reach to Hamlet's speech, 'To be or 

not to be?' 
Or wild Macbeth's cry, 'Never shake thy gory locks 

at me!' 
Or Lear's appeal: 'O, let me not be mad, sweet 

Heavens, not mad!' 
Or Shylock's rage: 'I'll have me bond!' Ah, me; it 

makes me sad 
To think it all, and then recall the drama of me 

youth, 
When there were two who read lines true; and the 

other one was Booth." 



(107) 



=oa 




GOING HOME TO MOTHER. 

I" T was fifty years ago, and one day we 
■* Had et our dinner by a big oak tree. 
(I often wonder if that tree still stands, 
It's green arms beckonin' to tired farm-hands.) 
It wa'n't quite time to go to work again, 
When one young chap he jumps up quick and 
then, — 



"I'm a-goin' home to mother, boys," he said, 
"Although she doesn't know it, an' perhaps she 

thinks I'm dead. 
I went away when I was young, y' see, 
But now I'm over twenty and I got more sense," 

says he. 



"I swear I don't know why I went," he says. 
"Somehow, 

The very strongest reasons then seem mighty fool- 
ish now. 

Some thoughtless word I said stirred up the brine; 

I s'pose no mother never loved a son much more'n 
mine," 

He said, "and every least word hurt. What fools we 
are 

To never learn the careless cut may leave the deep- 
est scar! 

(108) 







£X± 




"But now I'm goin' home again," he said. 

"I'm like the prodigal and tired of husks instead of 

bread. 
I'll tell her I was wrong! — and bless her! she was 

human. 
O, yes, I know; I said 'twas no use talkin' to an 

angry woman, 
But Lord! a woman might be 'woman' to another, 
But to her boy she oughtn't to be anything but 

mother. 

"An' so I'm goin' home again," he said. 

"My shoulder is just achin' for the pressure of her 

head. 
My lips are fixed to show her what is what, 
And these arms will soon convince her how long 

and strong they've got. 

"You can laugh, boys, if you want," the youngster 

said, 
His lips a-pressin' tighter and a firmness to his 

head, 
But there wasn't any laughin'. When you look 

deep down a heart 
An' see its noblest feelin's, 'tisn't laughter that'll 

start. 

"But here's for home and mother, boys!" he said, 
And he went. God help him! for he found his 
mother dead. 

(109) 





=DQ: 




RIMES TO BE READ 




She had died — died callin' for him, and her breast 
Never knew whose stricken head sunk there to rest. 

"I'm a-goin' home to mother," he had said, 

But O, the mighty difference when the lovin' lips 

are dead; 
A coffin is an awful thing for a fellow's last em- 
brace, 
And your hottest tears can never warm that cold 

'nd quiet face. 
Crying, ain't I? But that boy was me. That mother 

was my own, 
And though it's years and years ago, since I was 

left alone, 
Still, I think of her at midnight, and I dream of her 

at noon, 
For I'm goin' home to mother pretty soon, now — 

pretty soon. 



(no) 



DQ= 




A COURTIN , CALL. 

HIM! 

TTE dressed hisself from top t' toe 

" T' beat the lates' fash'n. 
He gave his boots a extry glow, 
His dicky glistered like the snow, 
He slicked his hair exactly so. 

An' all t' indicate "his pash'n." 
He tried his hull three ties afore 
He kep' the one on that he wore. 

HER! 

All afternoon she laid abed 

To make her featchurs brighter. 
She tried on ev'ry geoun she hed, 
She rasped her nails until they bled, 
A dozen times she frizzed her head 

An' put on stuff to make her whiter, 
An* fussed till she'd 'a' cried, she said 
But that 'Id make her eyes so red. 
******** 

THEM! 

They sot together in the dark 
'Ithout a light, excep' their spark, 
An' neither could have told er guessed 
What way the t'other un was dressed, 
(in) 




£0= 





RIP VAN WINKLE. 

"PONDER of Schnapps and Schneider than of 
" right, 

A shiftless, thriftless, rude, unlettered log 
Who wallowed in a slimy, drunken bog; 
Well-meaning and ill-acting; appetite 
As dry as was his wit; a jolly wight 
With follies to exhaust the catalogue; 
Weak-willed, good-tempered, sinful and contrite, 
Without one element of manly might, 
Save that the children loved him — and his dog. 

And yet he makes the laughter-laden lip 
Turn to a tremble, while the hot tears flow; 
Then mock its own emotion by some slip 
To sudden mirth, because we love him so; 
For human weakness in the rascal, Rip, 
Becomes a humane strength in actor Joe. 



(112) 



£XL 



Home-Made Philosophy. 






=oa 




RIMES TO BE READ 




A MULE OF ARKANSAS. 

'"pHOU patient, plodding piece of bone and flesh! 
■* Thou sentient something, tangled in a mesh 
Of fatal being! I could weep for thee, 
But thou, thou couldst as surely weep for me. 

Not knowing why nor whither I am driven, 
To me the urging lash is likewise given; 
Hitched to this drag of life, I may not falter, 
Nor wander past the pull of rein or halter. 

Poor thou, poor I! yet, comrade, were we free, 
The world might lose the little we may be. 
Along this straitened path, perhaps 'tis best, 
We may not linger and we dare not rest. 



(ii5) 





"^ 



=DCL 



\ 







THE BEAST AND HIS BURDEN. 

"P RESH from his valet, breathing forth perfume, 
*" Swathed in the softest product of the loom, 
Full-fed and arrogant, the beggar rode 
And cursed the laboring beast which he bestrode. 
A pleasant beggar he, who asked mere mites, 
Such as Possession of the Public Rights, 
Franchises, Rights of Way, and title deeds 
To profit by our children's children's needs. 

Another leaped upon the laboring beast 

Which faltered as he felt the load increased. 

The beggar burned with wrath, but found relief 

To see it was his trusted friend, the thief, 

A man to scale a Congress, tie the hands 

And gag the tongues, while forcing his demands 

For booty and for bounty. Yet so wise 

A cracksman he, he puts it in the guise 

Of benefit to others, so that we 

Snatch off our hats to him and bow the knee. 

But now the beast, by some strange impulse fired, 
Cried out: "Get off my back, for I am tired. 
I want to roll upon the earth. I need 
To rest a little and I want more feed." 
"Beast!" cried the beggar, striking with his goad, 
"We only ride to keep you in the road. 
Did we not ride and feed you, you would wander 
And starve to death out in the grasses yonder." 
(116) 




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RIMES TO BE READ 





"Ass!" cried the thief, "are you too blind to see, 
'Tis not your vulgar strength which carries me, 
But I support you by this tight-drawn rein? 
And I am almost weary of the strain, 
So if you hint again you want to stop, 
I swear I'll loose the rein and let you drop." 
The laboring beast cried out in great alarm 
And prayed the thief to keep a steady arm. 
And still he keeps his patient, weary stride, 
And still the thief and beggar calmly ride. 



("7) 





2XL 




A PRICELESS PARADISE. 

TF some weird gnome should seek my home, 
■*■ Some genie, fairy, witch, 
To blink my eyes with every prize 

Of life, and ask me "Which?" 
I think I'd choose, in half a trice, 
This boon: to never ask the price. 

I would not claim a gilded name, 

Or be a financier, 
Nor would I hold the wide world's gold; 

And yet I somewhat fear 
I'd ask a just sufficient slice 
That I might never ask the price. 

A coat-of-arms has meager charms 

To men of modern views, 
Yet were it mine to make design, 

I know which one I'd choose: 
An open purse, with this device, 
"He never, never asks the price." 

Is Heaven a state, a place, a fete, 

A rapture, or a rest? 
The question's old and each may hold 

His own opinion best; 
But my idea of Paradise 
Is where one need not ask the price! 

(118) 




£XL 




GRANDMOTHER'S SONG. 

r+ RANDMOTHER'S voice was always mild, 
^* And at everyday troubles she always smiled; 

For she used to say 

Frowns didn't pay, 
As she had learned when the merest child. 
So whenever we cried for a fancied wrong, 
Grandmother used to sing this song: 

"To-day, to-day, 

Let's all be gay; 

To-morrow 

We may sorrow. 

My dear, don't fret 

For what's not yet; 
For you make a trouble double when you borrow.' 

Ah me! 'tis many a lonesome year 

Since grandmother's song has reached my ear; 

And I sigh my sigh 

For the days gone by, 
For you went with them, grandmother dear. 
But I still have left your quaint old song, 
And I shall sing it and pass along: 

"To-day, to-day, 

Let's all be gay; 

To-morrow 

We may sorrow. 

My dear, don't fret 

For what's not yet; 
For you make a trouble double when you borrow.' 1 
(ii9) 




DO, 




THE DEAR LITTLE FOOL. 

"P ACH man is a master in a school — 
^-^ Heigh ho, my deary! 

Where he trains himself to be a fool — 

Folly is so cheery. 
And he trains him well and he trains him long, 
He trains him true and he trains him strong; 
And this is the burden of my song — 

Wit and wisdom weary. 



The man finds out that he's a fool — 

Heigh ho, my deary! 
And puts himself on the dunce's stool — 

Folly grows a-weary. 
And he says to himself, "You beast, you worm! 
You're the biggest fool I've had this term." 
And he laughs to see the poor fool squirm — 

Wisdom is so cheery. 



He sets down many a sapient rule — 
Heigh ho, my deary! 

For the future course of the wretched fool- 
Folly is so weary. 

And the poor little fool, he says: "Ah, me! 

That I was a fool I plainly see, 

But never again such a fool I'll be!"— 
Wisdom is so cheery. 
(120) 





DQ= 




The man and the fool they live along — 

Heigh ho, my deary! 
Till the man is weak and the fool is strong — 

Folly is so cheery. 
And the little fool says: "Oh, master dear, 
This never is long, and the world is drear! 
Let me loose! let me loose, and have no fear!" 

Wit and wisdom weary. 

The dear little fool, he has his way — 

Folly is so cheery! 
The good man laughs that the fool is gay — 

Wit and wisdom weary; 
Till he finds that the fool is really he, 
And the stronger the fool the worse when free, 
And again he groans, "Ah, woe is me!" — 

Heigh ho, my deary! 



(121) 





=90= 



i\ 




THE MINOR ROLE. 

f\ FT have you seen a star upon the stage 

^^ Uttering his transports of despair or rage, 

Until the whole house wondered at his skill 

And thundered plaudits with a hearty will. 

But did you note that other player there 

Who watched the leading actor's mock despair, 

Who had no line to speak, or work to do, 

Yet who was there to make the background true; 

Whose every thought must aid (as each might mar) 

The bright effulgence of the flaming star? 

And did you stop to think his thankless part 

Of doing nothing took the greater art? 

'Tis so in life. We oftentimes admire 
The man whom nothing seems to daunt or tire, 
Whose energies are like battalions hurled 
Against his foe (and audience!) the world. 
You hardly note that other actor there, 
That woman of his household — and his care, 
Who can do nothing more, nor would do less, 
Than live the background of his life's success — 
A waiting, watching, suffering, silent soul, 
Without the outlet of a leading role. 
And sure am I her patient, minor part, 
Doomed to do nothing, takes the greater heart. 



(122) 




. 



£2Q* 




PANACEA. 

TT'S no great oddity 

■*" That one commodity 
Has such demand 
Throughout the land. 
You know what it is, I think. Ah yes, 
It is nothing more and nothing less 
Than a double X brand of happiness. 



Now think what a place this world would be, 

What a jolly old place for you and me, 

What a wonderful place if you and I 

Would only try 

To meet the demand with a certain supply. 

Consider, my son, 

How easily done, 

To make one happy, only one; 

A father, mother, 

Sister, brother, 

Or if they be supplied, why then some other. 



And, my daughter, see 

How well 'twould be. 

Why, the thing is as plain as A B C! 

If each of us were engaged in keeping 

One happy soul from dawn to sleeping, 



(123) 



JXL 





If each of us were busy in making 
One soul peaceful from dusk to waking. 
What a happy old place this world would be, 
What a jolly old place for you and me! 

And if every one else then did the same, 

Why wouldn't it be the cleverest game? 

But, pray, don't try 

To oversupply 

Somebody already floating high. 

'Tis the sinking wretch we need to save, 

And not the one on the topmost wave. 

And remember, too, 

This much — that you 

And I will profit by what we do. 

'Tis a curious fact, but past all doubt, 

That the more of happiness one gives out 

The more he has left and the more his powers. 

As the gardener strips a bed of flowers 

That more shall bloom, so strip your soul 

That another's happiness be made whole. 

And lo! in the quick-winged second after, 

'Tis filled with the blooms of love and laughter. 



(124) 




=90: 



[^ 




RIMES TO BE READ 




BUT O, BOYS, KNOW, BOYS. 

npHERE'S a certain sort of pleasure in a min- 
"■• gling with the boys, 
In keeping up your end of it and adding to the 

noise 
With 

"Fill the cup 

And lift it up 

To every gallant soul of us. 
Drink! drink, my men, and come again! the devil 

guards the whole of us!" 
There's a pleasing palpitation to the liquid of the 

jugs, 
As it mingles with the music of the clinking of the 

mugs; 
There's a pretty, pleasing popping, 
When the bottles are unstopping, s 
And a fizzy fascination carries folly to its height. 
But O, boys, 

Know, boys — 
That folly has its flight, 
And a greater fascination 
Is a healthy, clean sensation 
That your brain is still in session and your eye is 

clear and bright, 
When the time comes for waking in the morning. 



(125) 



=00= 




RIMES TO BE READ 




There's a certain sort of pleasure in the gayety of 

girls, 
In the pat of pretty fingers, in the brush of beauty's 

curls, 
With 
"Here's a glass 

To any lass 

Who offers tempting lips to us! 
The night is kind, the world is blind, so who can 

debit slips to us?" 
There's a certain fascination in the giddiness of 

guile, 
There's a certain strange temptation in the wicked- 
ness of wile, 
When the wicked wit is dashing 
And the wicked smiles are flashing, 
So if all the world be wicked, is our wickedness 
amiss? 

But O, boys, 

Know, boys — 
There comes an end to this 
And a higher fascination, 
And a wholesomer sensation, 
Is to realize your lips are clean and worthy of the 



Of a sweetheart, wife, or mother in the morning. 



(126) 



J 



=DG 





A HITCH BEHIND. 

OEE them there boys a-crawmV 

*^ Up that long hill and haulm' 

Their sleds? A-slippin', fallin', 

A-puffin', laughin', bawlin'? 

And see those others shootin' down the slope 

Slicker than greased eels in a barrel o' soap? 

And down upon the level there, you'll find 

A batch of fellers of a different kind, 

Jest nacherally waitin' fer a hitch behind. 



Crawlin' up hill is work. An' you soon learn 
That all you git fer work you more than earn. 
O' course sometimes one of the strongest chaps 
May have the easiest sled to pull, perhaps. 
An' then, again, you'll see some heavy bob 
Behind a kid too little fer the job, 
But still he plugs ahead, not bein' the kind 
To stand 'round waitin' fer a hitch behind. 



An' slidin' down is spendin'. Once your sled 
Gits on the slope and finds it has its head, 
There ain't no use a-diggin' in your toes. 
A sled was made to go an' blame! She goes. 
Same way with money, 'ceptin' it's the kind 
That gits its motion from a hitch behind. 

(127) 



i 




=£0= 




Fer hitch-behinders are two sorts. Some's so all- 
fired 
Lazy they won't climb. They'll be too tired 
To chase the hitches up when hitches come, 
'Ceptin' they're ice-wagons. Then there's some 
That let the workin'-wagons go, and hitch 
Onto the double-bob "The Public," which 
Is drawed by two old plugs called You and Me, 
And drove by Uncle Sammy. Some day, he 
May git a cure fer bein' deaf and blind 
And swing his black-snake at them kids behind. 



(128) 





=00= 





A WATCHWORD. 

TXT HEN you find a certain lack 

* * In the stiffness of your back 
At a threatened fierce attack, 
Just the hour 

That you need your every power, 
Look a bit 

For a thought to baffle it. 
Just recall that every knave, 
Every coward, can be brave 
Till the time 

That his courage should be prime — 
Then 't is fled. 
Keep your head! 
What a folly *t is to lose it 
Just the time you want to use it! 

When the ghost of some old shirk 
Comes to plague you, and to lurk 
In your study or your work, 
Here *s a hit 

Like enough will settle it. 
Knowledge is a worthy prize; 
Knowledge comes to him who tries — 
Whose endeavor 
Ceases never. 
Everybody would be wise 
As his neighbor, 

Were it not that they who labor, 
(129) 




r>\ 



=90= 





For the trophy creep, creep, creep, 

While the others lag or sleep; 

And the sun comes up some day 

To behold one on his way 

Past the goal 

Which the soul 

Of another has desired, 

But whose motto was, "I 'm tired." 

When the task of keeping guard 

Of your heart — 

Keeping weary watch and ward 

Of the part 

You are called upon to play 

Every day — 

Is becoming dry and hard, — 

Conscience languid, virtue irksome, 

Good behavior growing worksome, — 

Think this thought: 

Doubtless everybody could, 

Doubtless everybody would, 

Be superlatively good, 

Were it not 

That it *s harder keeping straight 

Than it is to deviate; 

And to keep the way of right, 

You must have the pluck to fight. 



(130) 



SXL 




THE REFORMER. 

T KNOW a philosopher, learned and read, 

"■' Who, in viewing the world, seems to stand on 

his head, 
He pities the poor and goes in for reform, 
Convinced he can keep the world comfy and warm, 
If he keeps the thermometer out of the storm. 

Having heard how the ostrich has cleverly planned 
To hide by concealing his head in the sand, 
He holds that a scheme would be valid and wise 
To protect it forever from hunt and surprise 
By catching the ostrich and searing its eyes. 

He marvels that men should so bargain and dicker 
To be governed at last by an imbecile ticker, 
So he has invented one, run by a clock; 
Set fast, it will "boost," or set slow, it will "knock," 
And thus you can bull or can bear any stock. 

In elections he claims that the office should go 
Not to him with the high vote, but him with the 

low. 
To be voted unpopular surely is tough, 
So the office should go to console the rebuff, 
While the man who succeeds is rewarded enough. 

He holds that a criminal ought to do time 
Before, and not after, committing the crime. 
(131) 




DO, 




"Plain drunk" would be given a month to be fitted; 
Ten years and a burglary might be permitted; 
While murderers first would be hung, then ac- 
quitted. 

You laugh at this mortal? I laugh at him, too; 
He reminds me so much of myself — and of you. 
Oh, I'm sure the world's sick and it needs a phy- 
sician, 
But if I be the doctor to fill the position, 
The fee curing me cures the patient's condition! 



(132) 




DO, 




"HONOR." 

A PACK of dogs were sunning and napping, 
■"" Well-fed, satisfied, glad dogs; 
Suddenly, up sprang, snarling and snapping, 

Ill-bred, villified, mad dogs. 
Some one had flung them a musty bone, 
And the chorus cried, "It is mine; my own." 
" 'Tis mine, I claim, for I saw it first." 
"'Tis mine, say I, for I need it worst." 
Quarreling and snarling, they leaped to fight, 
Yowling and growling, their teeth snapped tight, 
Till each had lost of his quivering flesh 
More meat than the bone had held when fresh! 
They rolled themselves in the muck and mud; 
They lost their bone and they lost their blood. 
But on they fought, for, be it known, 
It is doggish honor to fight for a bone. 

A goose flew into a neighbor's yard 

And left an egg as a calling card. 

"The egg is mine, for my goose made it." 

" 'Tis mine, for on my land she laid it." 

A look, a word, a threat, a wrangle, 

A suit at law, a legal tangle, 

Decision, dissent, appeal, reversal, 

A re-appeal and a re-rehearsal, 

The egg grew stale, the case grew rotten, 

The goose was dead and long forgotten, 

(i33) 




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RIMES TO BE READ 




But still the antagonists litigated, 

While the lawyers smiled and the judges prated, 

Though all their driest lore, or juiciest, 

Could not decide which goose was goosiest.. 

Yet still they fought, for, be it known, 

'Tis a point of honor to "guard one's own." 

The Powers of the Earth discussing whether 

They might not eternally dwell together 

With peace, good humor and good digestion, 

Were suddenly stirred by a grievous question. 

An egg, or a bone, produced the foment, 

Or, anyway, something of equal moment. 

"Tut! the question is one of the merest trifles. 

(We'll rush our order for newer rifles.") 

"Dear cousin of ours, we are more than brothers, 

(Have you noticed our navy? There are no 

others.") 
"Good friend, our affection is deep and holy. 
(Do you think these guns are ornaments solely?") 
O, dogs will be dogs when they come to a bone, 
And men may be geese, as a goose has shown, 
And it's national "honor" to go to war 
Over something that isn't worth fighting for! 



(i34) 




=oa 




DEAR MOTHER EARTH. 

T^VEAR Mother Earth, full oft I long 
"■"^ To sing thy praises in a song; 
I ache to lay me down to rest 
Somewhere upon thy yielding breast, 
To turn my pavement-wearied feet 
Beyond the seeming endless street, 
And seek some dimpled country place, 
Half cool, half warm, for thy embrace; 
Then kiss thee, prone upon my face, 
Dear Mother Earth! 

Like old Antaeus long ago, 
Whose strength surged up from earth below, 
I feel there is a peace in thee, 
Which thou dost whisper unto me, 
When thus I press thee, cheek tp cheek. 
Thou art so strong and I so weak; 
And some time there shall come a day 
When tender, trembling hands shall lay 
Me deep, to mingle with thy clay, 
Dear Mother Earth! 



Thy gift to me shall come to thee, 
And as thou art, so shall I be. 
I owe thee all, and so must try 
To make thee better ere I die; 
And as we twain are one, I see 
To better self may better thee. 
(i35) 





=DQ= 





And so I rise from thy embrace 
Revived, and with a hopeful grace, 
Thus having met thee face to face, 
Dear Mother Earth! 



(136) 





^ 



DO, 




Various Verses 






£X3= 




DOMESTICATED GENIUS. 

T AM not up on artist's gush; 
"■■ I can't "improve the rose's flush,' 
Nor yet "so paint the woodland thrush 

That one may hear it sing;" 
But let me own without a blush, 
I swing a very pretty brush 

On window screens in spring. 

I own I've no desire to meet 
A foreign foe, in field, or fleet; 
I'm free to say I might retreat, 

If I were left on guard; 
Yet many a man might find defeat, 
If matched against me, as I beat 

The rugs in our back yard. 

I seldom seek a grassy ground 
And seize a shinny-stick to pound 
A marble from a little mound 

In token of my power; 
Far greater glory I have found, 
For I can push the mower 'round 

Our lawn in just one hour. 

I'm not familiar with the gear 
Of touring cars. I could not steer 
The catapult on its career 

(i39) 




JDQ= 




And dodge the rut and rock; 
But you would own I've scarce a peer, 
If you should see me engineer 

The go-cart 'round the block. 

I'm not of those who "fought and bled;" 
My fame has never widely spread; 
My qualities of heart and head 
Are very often doubted; 
But o'er my bones let this be said— 
That I've fixed up an onion bed, 

And, Heaven be praised! it's sprouted. 



(140) 





=DQ: 




THE SIGNS OF THE ZODIAC. 

(A Modern Interpretation.) 



OAGITTARIUS. Otherwise 
**^ Cupid, in a thin disguise. 



Virgo, the maiden. She and I 
Trot to altar. Happy? My! 

Libra. First designs of Fate; 
Grocer fails to give full weight. 

Taurus. Increased dangers lurk. 
Beef trust now begins to work. 

Aries. Fails to bring relief; 
Mutton follows price of beef. 

Pisces. Fish trust. Itching fin. 
Finds my pocket. Thrusts it in. 

Aquarius. Water turned to ice 
Stiffens. Also does the price. 

Scorpio. Hot stuff. That means coal; 
What! up higher? Bless my soul! 

Leo. Though I make a roar, 
Things go up a little more. 
(141) 




=DQ= 




RIMES TO BE READ 




Capricornus. Try to buck 

Tiger. Cleaned out. Wretched luck. 

Gemini. Anxious hours on pins; 
Nurse comes in and — Heavens, twins! 

Cancer the crab. What's crab? O, yes, 
Meaning a lobster — me, I guess. 




(142) 





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RIMES TO BE READ. 





THE LOVE OF COUNTRY. 

(As It Too Often Is At Present.) 

pv EEP in the heart of every man the love of 

*~* country lies; 

He breathes it with his baby breath; it lingers till he 

dies. 
So I love the land we live in, every tittle, every jot, 
With a preferential feeling for a Broadway corner 

lot. 



I love the boundless country, with its harvest, and 

I sigh 
To manipulate a corner of the visible supply. 
I love the lofty mountains, and I feel my heart will 

burst, 
Knowing I might own their treasure, had I only 

found it first. 



And not alone our country and its greatness I 

revere, 
But I hold the very emblems of its privileges dear. 
Methinks the goddess Liberty would touch a heart 

of flint, 
So beautifully stamped upon the product of the 

mint! 

(143) 




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1XL 




RIMES TO BE READ 




And I linger o'er the Latin graven on the coin's 

reverse, 
Wishing that I had a "pluribus" of "unums" in my 

purse. 
I love the spreading eagle with the lightning in its 

clutch, 
And I love the double eagle just precisely twice as 

much! 

Then the patriots and the sages — that long and no- 
ble line — 

I would that a collection of their likenesses were 
mine! 

I love the Grant and Lincoln on the crisp or crum- 
pled "one," 

And on the "two" I cherish the immortal Washing- 
ton. 

I love the Franklin on the "ten," the Garfield on 

the "five," 
And I love the noble red man better there than if 

alive. 
The hero on the "twenty," too, is strangely dear to 

me, 
But who he is, alas! I seldom have a chance to 

see. 

Yes, I honor all the heroes who are turned to com- 
mon clay, 

And my soul is filled with gratitude — I'm not as 
dead as they. 

(i44) 



£0: 




Yet while they lived they nobly launched our glori- 
ous Ship of State; 

And I wish I had the contract to supply her armor- 
plate. 

"In God we trust" they placed upon our coinage, 
which is why 

In man we will not trust unless he has a good sup- 
ply. 

From bonds of foreign tyranny they bravely set us 
free, 

And bonds of Uncle Sam are good enough for you 
and me. 



(i45) 



DO, 




AT A RAILROAD JUNCTION. 

T O! HERE am I at Junction Town, 
*■' At slow and woful Junction Town, 
Where devils laugh and angels frown 
To see a traveler set down; 
Where trains run only with a view 
To help a restaurant or two; 
Where rusty rails and barren boards 
Are all the point of view affords. 
But O, the barren board of all 
Is that within that eating-stall! 
Yes, stall, I said, and well deserved 
The name! where beastly feed is served. 
And so I say without compunction 
My curses on this Railroad Junction. 

What shall I do at Junction Town? 
At drear and weary Junction Town? 
The martyr's cross without the crown 
Awaits the stranger here set down. 
O, one may wait and wait and wait, 
Or one may rail against his fate, 
Or eyes and ears may strain and strain, 
As later, later grows the train, 
The while the lagging minutes mock 
His witless watching of the clock; 
Or one may watch the station clerk 
Performing his relentless work. 

(146) 




=90: 




O, wretched man, of wretched function, 
Existing at this Railroad Junction! 

God's pity on this Junction Town, 

This dead and dreadful Junction Town! 

O, what nepenthe-well can drown 

The cares of travelers here set down. 

The thought may give some passing cheer 

One may escape within a year, 

Or else the sentence be commuted 

And only death be executed! 

And if 't be so, I only pray 

There be no Resurrection Day, 

For think of Gabriel coming down 

And finding one at Junction Town! 

And so I say, with fervent unction, 

God's pity on this Railroad Junction! 



(147) 



oa 




RIMES TO BE READ 




THE WOMAN WITH THE POT O' PAINT 

NOW rises up the woman with a purpose in her 
face 
And "touches up" the various belongings of the 

place. 
A red is on her shoulder where she slid her sleeve 

on high, 
A yellow on her temple where she tried to wipe her 

eye; 
The baby's face is waffled where it went against the 

screen, 
And papa's Sunday trousers have a seat of vivid 

green, 
But the woman with the pot o' paint, unconscious of 

her blame, 
Still "touches up" the various belongings just the 

same. 



Not hers the languid landscape, or monotonous ma- 
rine, 

Not hers the china set bedaubed with giddy gold 
and green, 

Not hers the "chrome" and "lake" from out a tube 
of squeezy lead, 

Upon a palette daubed and with a mouse's whisker 
spread. 

Nay, nay, the can of color of an honest primal hue, 

And hers, the brush as spreading as a horse's tail or 
two; 

(148) 



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'/ 



Then pick her out a lonesome day and let her have 

full swing, 
And the woman with the paint-pot is the terror of 

the spring. 

O, Raphael was rapid and his genius was intense, 

But he couldn't put more paint than could the 
woman on a fence, 

And cunning was the coloring of Titian and his 
brush, 

But the colors of the woman would have put him to 
the blush. 

Michael Angelo was noted for his daring, it is said, 

But did he ever dare to paint a china door-knob red? 

Bonheur could paint a powerful horse or gentle- 
manly cow, 

But you ought to see the painted cat that's living 
with us now! 



(i49) 




=90= 




I 



BLACK AND TAN. 

Tl/TISS Barbara Black, a waxen blond, 
■*■*■*■ Bemoans her visage, pale and wanned, 

And strives by every plan 
To compass her supreme desire, 
Seen in her struggles to acquire 
A coat of richest tan. 

Miss Lily White, a "bright brunette," 
Disdains her locks of curly jet 

And African descent. 
True happiness she may not reach, 
Because her hue will never bleach, 

Say ninety-five per cent. 



Now, if some scientific crack 

Could bleach Miss White and tan Miss 

His fame would surely shine. 
But, oh! suppose the learned man 
Should equalize their black and tan 

And lose the color line! 



Black, 



(150) 







=oa 




THE SUPERIOR VIEW. 

T7* ES, Plato's works were good, for he was clever 

■*■ in a way, 
But they're hardly ever in the "six best sellers" of 

to-day: 
And Shakespeare had a certain popularity, no doubt, 
But he hasn't published lately and I guess he's 

written out; 
And as for Homer, really, don't you think he was a 

sham? 
Why, it's doubtful if he ever even wrote a telegram. 



Yes, Alexander's armies showed a certain sort of 

skill, 
But his knowledge of artillery was pretty nearly nil. 
Napoleon rode roughly over half a hemisphere, 
But he never rode an auto in all of his career; 
And Caesar was courageous in vicissitudes of war, 
But he never had the fortitude to jump a trolley- 
car. 



Yes, Paginini knew the way to swing a fiddle bow, 
But could he swing the voters of his precinct, do 

you know? 
And Raphael could color with a very pretty touch, 
But his drawings never figured in the papers very 

much, 

(151) 



f 



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And Phidias could build a Parthenon in stately 

style, 
But I'd rather have my money in a modern office 

pile. 

Yes, Moses was a clever organizer for his date, 

But he never tried to organize a steamship syndi- 
cate; 

And Socrates' philosophy has been esteemed sub- 
lime, 

But he never asked for numbers that were "busy" 
all the time; 

And as for Father Adam, why, whatever Eve would 
bake, 

He never dared to hint of things his mother used 
to make! 



(152) 




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THE ORGAN GRINDER. 

TJ* E stands outside my window in the street, 
■■■ A humble minstrel of a dozen lays, 
A memory of simpler, happier days. 
Dear "Home, Sweet Home," and faithless ''Mar- 
guerite," 
I did not know their music was so sweet; 
The "Washerwoman" and the "Marsellaise," 
I know not which should have my highest praise 5 
Their very crudeness makes them so complete. 

Weary of V/agner and his turgid notes, 

Of florid Verdi's acrobatic throats, 

I revel in this arm-delivered air, 

Which whips a score of years from out my sight, 

Refills me with a bubbling boy's delight, 

And leaves me scant of pennies and of care. 



(153) 



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OLIVER HAZARD PERRY. 

UTXTE'VE met the enemy and they are ours; 
* * Two ships, two brigs, one schooner 
and one sloop." 
His words charge down the years — a warlike group, 
Grim, gallant, glorious! All the flowers 
Matured by summer suns and autumn showers 
We use to deck the memory of that group, 
Born of the times when banners rise or droop 
In the harsh conflict of contending powers. 

But look thou, Perry! gallant man and true! 
See'st thou that smoke of commerce, not of war? 
Rejoice with us that now no battles mar, 
And now there is no work for thee to do; 
No lookout's eye sights carnage from afar; 
No dismal red is mixed with Erie's blue. 



(154) 




£XL 




THE THIRTY-THIRD DEGREE. 

TVTOW every thing that Russell did, he did his best 

"^ to hasten 

And one day he decided that he'd like to be a 

Mason. 
But nothing else would suit him and nothing less 

would please, 
But he must take and all at once the thirty-three 

degrees! 

Well, he rode the — oh, that is, he — really I can't 

tell. 
You either mustn't know at all, or else know very 

well. 
He dived into— well, never mind. It only need be 

said 
That somewhere in the last degree, poor Russell 

dropped down dead! 

They arrested all the Masons and they stayed in 

durance vile. 
Till the jury found them "Guilty" when the judge 

said with a smile, 
"I'm forced to let the prisoners go, for I can find," 

said he, 
"No penalty for murder in the thirty- third degree!" 



K 



(iS5) 




£0= 





OTTO AND THE AUTO. 

>*"P IS strange how fashion makes us change the 

"*" objects we admire; 
We used to sing the tireless steed, but now the 

steedless tire. 
So Otto bought an auto, so as not to be antique, 
But the thing was autocratic, as well as automatic, 
And the auto wouldn't auto as it ought to, so to 
speak. 



He thought to hire an auto-operator for the work, 
And first he hired a circus-man and then he hired a 

Turk, 
For he knew the circus-man drove fifty horses with 

success, 
And if a man be shifty enough to manage fifty, 
'Tis palpable enough he ought to manage one 

horse-less! 



As for the Turk, 'tis also plain, deny it if you can, 
He ought to run an auto, for a Turk's an Ottoman. 
'Twas all in vain; so Otto moved to Alabama, purely 
That he might say, "I'm Otto from Mobile, and my 

motto: 
'A Mobile Otto ought to run an automobile 

surely!'" 

(156) 



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RIMES TO BE READ 




So Otto sought to auto on the auto as he ought to, 
But the auto sought to auto as Otto never thought 

to! 
Then Otto he got hot, oh, very hot! as he ought 

not to, 
And Otto said: "This auto ought to auto and it's 

got to!" 

And Otto fought the auto and the auto it fought 

Otto, 
Till the auto also got too hot to auto as it ought to, 
And then, Great Scott! that auto shot to heaven — 

so did Otto — 
Where Otto's auto autos now as Otto's auto ought 

to. 



(157) 




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JXL 





LENTEN PENITENCE. 
(A la Mode.) 



her 



TN sack-cloth and ashes my lady prepares 
■*■ To repent of her sins and to murmur 

prayers. 
She is fond of her prayers, so her copies are bound 
In harmony with her, however she's gowned, 
For she holds her Creator should never be faced 
Except in mauve prayers with a lavender waist. 



In sack-cloth and ashes she ponders afresh 
On methods of penance to punish the flesh; 
And what though she choose, for her piety's sake, 
The vicarious flesh of a porterhouse steak? 
"O Lord, be Thou merciful unto a sinner" 
Who has fasted for hours and is faint for her din- 
ner. 

In sack-cloth and ashes, but if she prefer 

That her sacque should be seal, should there be a 

demur? 
Prophet John wore a skin (and our climate is 

colder) 
Which draped from the loins, as hers drapes from 

the shoulder. 
And as for the ashes, well, they may be met 
Where they dusted the fur from her last cigaret! 

(158) 





=DCL 





COMEDY OR TRAGEDY? 

(The Coquette, loquitur.) 

SAY I do not love you. I am gay 
A And with my laughter waft your vows away; 
For you, you say you love me, smile and sigh, 
And fire me with the fervor of your eye. 
Ah me, the pity of our mimic play! 
If only either of us did not lie! 



(159) 





=DQ= 








MY LOVER SAYS. 

TJE says I should not give a glance 

" To other men 

But 'tis no gift, for, by some chance, 

I'm sure to get one back again — 

Or two, or ten; 
Besides, I only look to see 
If any of them look at me. 

He says I ought to see as through 

My lover's eyes; 
But I reply that so I do, 
For where he looks there I look too; 

For I am wise, 
And know that he must look — to see 
If any of them look at me! 



(160) 




=0Q 




NOT A BIT SUPERSTITIOUS. 

TyrO, I am not superstitious. 
A ^ I consider it pernicious, 
If not absolutely vicious 
In a man 
To admit himself so small that he must scan 
Every little sign and omen 
As the menace of a foeman. 
Still, I'm free to say that Friday 
Never, never would be my day 
For a venture, for I'm sure 'twould never hit, 
Though I am not superstitious, not a bit. 

Really, I've no toleration 
Of that nervous hesitation 
And that irksome perturbation 

Which I've seen, 
When a dinner-party chanced to oe thirteen. 
Why, I've seen that arrant folly 
Make a whole crowd melancholy, 
With their whining and their flimsy, 
Foolish reasons for the whimsey. 
Still, I own I hate to be the last to sit. 
Though I am not superstitious, not a bit. 

Certain things may be propitious, 
Though they seem but adventitious, 
And it's hardly superstitious 
To perceive 
Which is which, and so, accordingly, believe. 
(161) 




£XL 





Now there's nothing makes me sadder 

Than to walk beneath a ladder; 

But I grow a good deal bolder 

When the moon is at my shoulder. 

And to spill the salt! It takes away my grit, 

Though I am not superstitious, not a bit. 

Surely nothing can be clearer 
Than that evil marches nearer 
At the breaking of a mirror, 
And it's true 
That a howling dog in night-time makes me blue, 
For his keen scent makes no errors 
And he smells the King of Terrors. 
Here's another thing. Take heed, sir, 
If your nose should start to bleed, sir, 
And should only bleed three drops and then should 

quit! 
Though I am not superstitious, not a bit. 

It is odd to see what uses 
Some folks make of vain excuses 
Rather than admit abuses 

Of the mind, 
When they're rather superstitiously inclined. 
Just to put it in plain English; 
It would seem they can't distinguish 
Between false and foolish cases 
And the few which have a basis 
In experience, which even I admit, 
Though I am not superstitious, not a whit! 
(162) 



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THE ARMIES OF THE CORN. 

"ID ANK upon rank they stood, and row on row; 
**" Plumed, tasseled, uniformed in green, 

With rations in their knapsacked husks between 
The myriad blades they brandished at the foe. 

Long held the brave brigades and would not yield 
Till shattered by the destiny of War. 
Then (gallant tribute from the conqueror!) 

They stacked their arms and tented on the field. 



(163) 



=9G 



INDEX. 

PAGE 

Adam 74 

After-Dinner Apology of Le Comte Crapaud. 102 

Almost Up 59 

Anarchist, The 20 

An Unconventional Rustic 77 

Armies of the Corn, The 163 

At a Railroad Junction 146 

Beast and His Burden, The 116 

Before Playing Tinkertown 81 

Black and Tan 150 

But O, Boys, Know, Boys 125 

But They Didn't 60 

Comedy or Tragedy? 159 

Connor McCarthy 30^ 

Corn-tin' Call, A in 

Dat Gawgy Watahmillon gi 

Dear Little Fool, The 120 

Dear Mother Earth s 135 

De Goofeh-Jack 70 

Domesticated Genius 139 

Evolution 62 

Fame and Fate 57 

^"Fin de Siecle" 67 

Going Home to Mother 108 

Grandmother's Song ng 

Hero of the Hill, The 50 

Hitch Behind, A 127 

"Honor" 133 

"I'm Glad to See You" 11 

(165) 




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INDEX. 

PAGE 

In the Old Schoolhouse 54 

Katie an' Me 89 

Labors of Hercules, The 41 

Lenten Penitence 158 

Little Saunter, A 84 

Love of Country, The 143 

Minor Role, The 122 

Mule of Arkansas, A 115 

My Lover Says 160 

Nathan's Flat 93 

Not a Bit Superstitious 161 

Not a Coon-Song Coon 75 

Old Man Knows, The 72 

Oliver Hazard Perry 154 

Organ Grinder, The 153 

"Other One Was Booth, The" 105 

Otto and the Auto 156 

"Our Club"— The Irish Member's Toast 97 

"Our Ladies"— The Poet's Toast 99 

Panacea 123 

Priceless Paradise, A 118 

Reformer, The 131 

Revenge 86 

Rip Van Winkle 112 

Signs of the Zodiac, The 141 

Story of Old Glory, The 15 

Superior View, The 151 

Thirty-third Degree, The 155 

Unverstaendlich 87 

Watchword, A 129 

Woman with the Pot o' Paint, The 148 

Young Man Waited, The 38 

(166) 







:DQ= 




HERE ENDS "RIMES TO BE READ" 
BY EDMUND VANCE COOKE: 
PRINTED BY THE DODGE PUBLISHING 
COMPANY IN THE CITY OF NEW YORK. 





